


Bound by Choice

by justshyofgifted



Series: Oblivion Bound [3]
Category: Bloodbound (Visual Novel)
Genre: Adventure, Angst, Blood and Violence, Canon Divergence, Drama, Explicit Sexual Content, Grief/Mourning, Historical References, Mentions of War, Multi, NSFW, Plot, Polyamory, Romance, Trauma, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-11
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:08:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 86,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23105986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justshyofgifted/pseuds/justshyofgifted
Summary: Before there were Clans and Councils, before the fate of the world rested in certain hands, before the rise and fall of a Shadow King ― there was the Trinity. Three souls intertwined in the early hands of the universe who came to define the concept ofeternitytogether. Because that was how they began and how they hoped to end;together.For over 2,000 years Valdas, Cynbel, and Isseya have walked through histories both mortal and supernatural. But in the early years of the 20th century something happened―something terrible. Their story has a beginning, and this is the end.Book 3 in theOblivion Boundseries; focusing on the Trinity as told through a series of historical-based vignettes. Completed.
Relationships: OC/OC/OC
Series: Oblivion Bound [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1439803
Comments: 36
Kudos: 5





	1. I.i. The Godmaker and the Nile

**Author's Note:**

> _Bound by Choice_ and the other _Oblivion Bound_ works are based on the _Bloodbound_ & _Nightbound_ visual novels created for the Play Choices app game. The main characters of _Choice_ are original; not tied to the MC characters created in-game.
> 
> While heavy inspiration and many plot points are taken from the original content, the _Oblivion Bound_ works are canon divergent and [at the time of publishing this, in the middle of BB3] may deviate from the plots taken in-game.
> 
> As of initial publishing (03.11) this work is _unbetaed_.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #### Part I.
> 
> — Rome, 44 B.C. The Roman Empire has reached a tipping point. A time of peace will drown in the blood of Caesar. Lovers open their home to hostiles, a seer withers under the burden of knowledge, and a lotus blooms in the moonlight.
> 
> * * *
> 
> Valdas welcomes his Maker to Rome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **chapter content warnings:** past Gaius/Kamilah, violence, blood, language, sexual content

_Rome, 44 B.C._  


“Would you abide anyone else keeping such ill time?”

“That’s not how this works, my love, and you know this.”

“How _dare_ I expect a guest in our home to arrive in a timely manner.”

If there is more to be said Isseya does not say it; protests dying on her lips the moment she catches sight of red eyes and a dark brow arched particularly high.

He watches them fondly though — remembers being her age, the swell and ebb of passions in the body tumultuous to say the least. And, of course, their love knows it comes from a place of deep consideration and respect. _They_ would never _dare_ do him such an insult.

Cynbel comes up behind the pair of them, arms resting on waists both slender and cut of hard muscle. Leans in to inhale the breath of them with the faintest whisper of lips on their skin. 

_“Forgive her, Our Beloved One, she knows not of the matters she speaks.”_

Which is the wrong thing to say; earns him a flash of bared teeth and her silken body wrenching from his touch. “Speak for me again and lose your tongue.”

“Not my favorite of your newfound _habits,_ Isseya.”

“It keeps you quiet.”

Valdas croons at the bickering pair of them. All is forgiven in his touch.

“She’s gotten _mouthy,_ Cynbel.”

“Really,” rolling his eyes, “I hadn’t noticed.”

When the anticipated _lectica_ arrives over the sloping crest of hill at the edges of their estate attitudes change. Cynbel comes to Valdas’ left hand, Isseya at the right. Behind them the heartbeats of servants made to work well into the midnight hour rumble like dozens of tiny footsteps. Not that he holds any lingering attachment to the withering lives of mortals — but he hopes their guest doesn’t put them in need of even _more_ help.

Isseya’s temper does that well enough on its own.

He chances a look out of the corner of his eye—finds he isn’t alone in the concern echoing in his younger lover’s dark gaze. Both of them roaming aching looks over their Maker’s expression for any hint or sign of discontent.

Godmaker or no, they would see themselves ripped limb from limb if it meant pleasing their beloved. Even going so far as to see the one who Made their Maker cast out from Rome, the Empire… even the coil of the living.

But they had their chance to talk Valdas out of allowing his Maker—a man never once mentioned before his announced arrival—under their roof. They had tried, and they had failed.

Now they must suffer the consequences.

The figure who steps out of the _lectica_ is… not entirely what Cynbel had pictured when he was forced to accept the man as more than a figment. There’s a part of him that smirks proud when he sees his Beloved is taller. As though that matters somehow.

He, of course, towers over them all. But there lies nothing new.

Pale skin and dark hair that falls in well-groomed waves over his shoulders; a beautiful face framing eyes that bring to mind the far-off memory of sunny afternoons without a cloud in sight. The Godmaker is, as they all are, a creature of perfection. He would expect nothing less.

Though it would have been easier to be smug had he been a hideous cur of a thing. Vulcan, perhaps; powerful but wretched among his kind.

“Gaius,” says Valdas—and in a voice only his lovers would know as falsely placating—with arms offered wide and the barest bow of his head, “too long, too long.”

With pink lips, _Gaius_ looks upon Cynbel’s Lord and God with a satisfied bemusement and smile. But he does not approach. Turns instead to brush aside the thick _lectica_ curtains with the backs of his knuckles. When a hand grabs his from the vehicles depths Cynbel feels Valdas grow tense beside him. Knows no doubt Isseya’s anger has already tripled her wrath.

_Who does he think he is, bringing a courtesan with him to a house not his own? The fucking gall._

There’s a familiarity to the vision of her that Cynbel must suffer. Complexion rich and warm with a dark-haired crown that falls to her shoulders. There they are bathed in moonlight and the woman’s eyes of kohl and sheer dress have her more suited to a morning the likes of which none gathered could ever see again.

All things that remind him of smoke and ash, of flames leaping to the skies and screams echoing from the deepest wells to the harbors near.

With the Godmaker’s attention turned to his whore, Cynbel reaches out to brush his fingertips along the inside of his lover’s wrist. The touch isn’t returned — doesn’t have to be. They have known one another in ways that would make the Roman pantheon tremble. It is enough.

“I offer to you your Queen Kamilah,” says the Godmaker without so much as a fucking _glance,_ “and to you my darling, my first son Valdemaras and his line.”

_His Queen._ On the contrary, Cynbel was getting awfully tired of titles and royals and the whole mess of it. First Caesar and his _Dictator Perpeuto_ nonsense, now this?

He came from a land before kings and emperors and _dictator perpetui._ What were kings compared to the wrath of gods? Better gods than the Romans imagined up, too. Ones who were not so easily swooned by gilded temples and soft gifts of incense, jewels, and other wealth.

Real gods demanded _blood._ And oh what riches they would give the one who offered the most…

The nod Valdas had given his Maker was minimal; the look he gives his supposed _queen_ is even more so. Something cold in his dark gaze eases, though, as she spares him the same physical affection but has the decency to address him _“Domine.”_

Their God places a hand at either of their backs; ever one to flaunt his wealth. “Cynbel of the Riedones,” who bows because that is his place beneath them—she who joins him, “and Isseya of the Veneti.”

“Welcome to Rome.” And she hides her hatred of her role in this place well; gestures to the doors to the main house open behind them. Where candle light flickers and the smell of baked dates wafts on the wind. “A meal has been —”

“We have much to discuss, Valdemaras.”

Their darling stands frozen as if struck by a heavy hand. Interrupted, and on her own property. Some have been murdered for far less where they stand.

For the barest moment Cynbel, too, loses himself — lets his carefully schooled expression falter into a twisted snarl of anger and slit pupils. His mistake and not one to be repeated, not as Gaius glances between them utterly disinterested.

“Have you something to say?” And when they do not answer; “I thought as much.”

His hosts aren’t spared a second look. Could be no more than statues as he passes them with a flourish of his military cloak, his exotic Kamilah at his heels, and “Valdemaras, to me!” barked as a master summons his hound.

The remaining lovers are left standing on their own doorstep; nothing more than strangers. This is a new side to Valdas — one Cynbel has never seen… and wasn’t that a blessing he never knew he had.

Isseya pushes her way into his arms — Cynbel takes her gladly. Presses his lips on the seam of her hair and forehead and lets them linger.

“No wonder he never spoke of what made him.”

“Not all are as lucky as we.”

Her blunted teeth nip at his collarbone. “We were blessed by a god.”

“And no divine gifts come without a price. Consider this our Herculean trial.”

With her mouth twisted in the way it is nothing good could ever come of it — her sharp tongue an admirable trait in passion but easily confused for a dagger anywhere else — so he stifles her with an open-mouthed kiss; drinks in her words lest they get her killed.

The doors to the _exedra_ are closed long enough for Isseya to grow bored of waiting, to force Cynbel’s hand in giving her a suitable enough distraction that she not risk their lover’s ire with foolish acts. And as things usually go when any form of punishment is involved the pair end up falling entangled on their bed; bare skin like fine art under the steady eyes of a dozen candles and in knots of flesh. Impossible to tell where one ends and the other begins.

He leaves her smeared with blood and wine and other lovely things; Venus depicted in the fashion of those ravenous Old Gods. Has the decency to wait until she is sound asleep before gathering himself in a cloak for his nightly journey into the winding depths of Rome herself.

Can’t help himself when he stops at the doors still shut tight. Valdas’ muffled voice interrupted by his Maker — _frequently._

The sight of Kamilah, a bright stain against the dark frescos that decorate the walls, is some comfort at the very least. They may not be worthy to disgrace the Godmaker’s presence but neither is she.

“Know this,” he waits until she looks him in the eyes before he says it, “among my beloveds and I you will never be named _Queen.”_

He would take the shift of honey to crimson in her eyes to be a challenge — were he not familiar with all of the other signs screaming out to him from her body. Familiar to him both before this life and no doubt long after it. For hunger is a pain not even the immortal can escape.

“Do so with care, but sup upon the staff if you need.” He expects her to take up the invitation right away and when she does not… “What, do you need the Godmaker’s permission for _that?”_

“I answer to no one.”

“Ah, she speaks,” and Cynbel isn’t shy in showing what amusement he gets from her frustration, “and here I was starting to wonder if she even _understood_ Latin.”

“It is not… my birth tongue, no.”

“No, that would be the tongue of the _Imperator’s_ little Pharaoh-wife, yes?”

She may have been looking at him before, but now Kamilah seems to see him for the first time. The hunger there, ever-lurking as it always did with their kind, but wrangled back against sharp intelligence.

Reminds him a bit of Isseya, to be honest.

“Do all Romans speak so crassly about the Pharaoh?”

“Are you daring to assume me Roman?”

“He who speaks Latin in the city of Rome thinks himself anything other than a Roman?”

She is not outwardly wrong, and that she speaks her mind is a refreshing thing from an outsider. He loves them dearly, his God and his kin, but three hundred years is ample time for mortality to begin to bore him.

“No, they do not,” he finally answers, “but I have seen the splendor of Alexandria with mine own eyes. That she thinks Rome more amenable is… not a proof of her wit, at the least.”

_So much of the moonlight has already been wasted waiting for belated guests. Any longer here dawdling and he won’t make it to his appointment._

So Cynbel does the unthinkable. He offers her his arm.

“I have an engagement I cannot miss. You can drink your fill of the streets. My Beloved One and the Godmaker may be hours yet.”

Kamilah stands but leaves his offer untouched. “And your wife?”

“My _what?”_

“The lady—Isseya.”

The mere thought of it—enough to curdle the last remaining drops of his pleasure. “— is not my wife. Worry not, my beloved is well-filled in more ways than one and needs to sleep it off.”

A quip even the strongest of wills could not resist. One that makes the woman recoil from him as if burned by sunlight and makes Cynbel throw his head back in laughter. Something the men with their whispers and secrets can no doubt hear.

* * *

It stands to reason Valdas and this _Kamilah_ are of the same ilk, but as Cynbel learns on the road to town that could not be further from the truth.

“No wonder you look wasted away,” and he actually _does_ feel sorry for her and the hunger gnawing at her flesh and bones, “the world is not as it was when I was Turned… armies marching across the world this way and that. How irksome it must be to fill your newborn belly.”

Kamilah’s brow ticks slightly. It does that a lot, he’s noticed. “I want for nothing, and take what I desire.”

“Or does the Godmaker offer it to you on lavish plates?”

As the _letica_ brings them further through the winding chambers of Rome’s heart she watches, doesn’t answer until they are deep enough within.

“Why do you call him such?”

“What name do _you_ carry for him?”

No matter how many bastard babes are born of Caesar and Cleopatra the reality remains the same. Two lands, two empires at war with one another for so long cannot be united by such meager means as legal marriages or parentage. The Romans will always want more. The Egyptians will never let them have it. That much is known.

And seen, too, in the way Kamilah turns away from the sights of the city with revulsion. “In my lands he is known as the Undying Centurion. No more than a rumor whispered among encampments to keep one alert through the night watch.”

“Doubtful that rumors have such sharp teeth.”

“As I learned firsthand.” Does she know the ghost of her hand across her throat, fingertips lingering on gold glittering there; a priceless apology?

Their eyes meet across the darkness of the space. Finally Cynbel shrugs.

“He is the Godmaker because he is, simple as that. He that gave blood and life to Our Beloved, the Made-God Valdemaras.”

“Gods cannot be made.”

“No?” Memories of the old days brighten in his eyes, bring a wistful smirk to his lips as his tongue snakes out to taste the memory of bloodshed long gone. “Such a shame. I shall have to break the news to him kindly.”

He owes this woman nothing and no word likewise. Her people have had gods and temples long before she was born; will no doubt have them long after her immortality has run out. Unless she is of wicked luck — a great possibility judging by her sharp wit.

She could never understand life before her great empire. The kind of life led by wanderers; by those the Romans called heathens and Gauls. How it felt to find a voice in the neverending silence of solitude — to have it call her name. To have it desire her, crave her; taste of her and let her taste in return.

Because his business is better left uninterrupted, and because Kamilah draws the eyes of every beggar and market keep the moment he helps her out onto the streets proper, he undoes the fastening on his cloak and places it neatly over her shoulders. Leaves no room for arguments as he waves off the carriers and begins the now-familiar journey onward.

At least she can keep up.

He watches her turn her nose up at several of the beggars that slumber on the streets of their route. “Tell me Alexandria has no urchins and I will call you a liar.”

“I’m sure they are plenty.”

“Then try not to look so fucking insulted by their presence. For however long you and the Godmaker stay in Rome creatures such as these will be your lifeblood.”

_Starve for long enough and one learns to turn away nothing, not even the skeletal throats of Rome’s disgraces._

His words hang in the heavy night air between them. Nothing more than a mention but the question, once begged, cannot be undone. _How long will they be here?_ How long will the home of his darling and Their Beloved be spoiled by their presence?

And what toll will it take on Valdas; who already seemed weaker at the mere thought of his Maker taking breath nearby?

“You share his bed.”

To Kamilah’s credit, she isn’t phased. “Indeed.”

“And his secrets, do you share those as well?”

“Would I share them with you if I did?”

He looks at her sharply. “Why have you come to Rome?” _Why have you come to ruin everything we’ve built?_

But the answer lies not on her lips; rather in her gaze. The warm glow of the nearest torches casting shadows deep on her cheek and a defiance that he’s sure was part of her allure — part of what the Godmaker saw in her.

She doesn’t know, and it’s killing her.

“I see.” Stepping back; continuing along the cobbled streets as they twist and turn deeper into the labyrinth of poverty and strife. All familiar sights to him by now.

“How much further?” Kamilah asks eventually and the lisp of her words is familiar. Even the filth of urban living cannot quench her thirst.

“Patience, little lotus, patience.”

They arrive. Cynbel comes to an abrupt stop in front of a darkened doorway; the wood thin and torch still smelling heavy of scorched oil. Behind him Kamilah takes in the length of the alley with a furrowed brow. This part of the city is heavy; with death as much as life.

Both are hard realities to face. “It will fade with time,” he tells her unprompted; doesn’t know _why_ … maybe because he needs her quiet, complacent — maybe because he remembers the youth of this life less fondly than the rest, “see a lifetime or two and their faces blur until you look at them as you would a beast before supper.”

He raps harsh knuckles against the door. Thin wood trembles — holds.

“How many lifetimes have you seen?”

Cynbel doesn’t answer.

The door opens to a young man, olive face messily framed by dark curls and eyes still trying desperately to cling to sleep. Cynbel knows he’s expected, but says nothing. Has been here enough times to know this one, the third son if memory serves, apprentices early with the tanner.

_“Domine,”_ he greets, steps aside as always to allow entry but the sight of Kamilah behind makes him falter.

“I trust my guest will be shown the same hospitality.” It isn’t a question. The boy nods; silently takes in her beauty before he remembers his place and moves out of the way.

As with most doorways he ducks over the threshold as he enters. Feels Kamilah keep pace beside him as the tanner’s boy fumbles through the dark to lead them onward. The vampires accompanying him, however, have no such trouble.

The boy stops in front of a closed door and opens it without announcement. “Nona, he’s here.”

The rest of the house may have found rest but Nona, his appointment, has not. Likely that she hasn’t in some time judging by the dark circles under her eyes and the sluggish way she looks at her visitors from the middle of her bedroll.

She rubs the heels of her palms into her eyes and blinks away her sleeplessness. Moves to clamor her frail body up but Cynbel raises a hand to stop her. “Don’t exert yourself. I apologize for my tardiness.”

“I knew you would be late.”

“Mm, I should have expected such. I have —”

“— a guest.” _I knew that, too,_ says her tone.

When the visitors are fully inside young Nona’s room, the boy is content to leave them; is always content to leave his youngest sibling in the company of a strange man with how well he pays the family.

Rather he than another, Cynbel justifies.

“Before you go I have a request,” he ignores the speeding of the man’s young and struggling heart, “bring your elder brother. My guest has need of him.”

Kamilah takes offense, that much is obvious. But the brother nods with a mumbled _“yes, domine,”_ and departs.

“I promised you a meal for joining me.”

“What are we here for?” When Nona lights the candle nearest her Kamilah takes the girl’s gaunt face in fully; the blazing in her eyes purely human, purely a woman’s concern. “Cynbel, enough.”

“You do not command me.”

“If you harm her —”

She’s cut off by a trembling Roman hand. Cynbel takes it in his own, brushes his thumb over her knuckles until the spasms cease. For all of the venom in Kamilah’s warning Nona does not look at her with fear or fright. At first Cynbel had taken it to be the ignorance of youth but now — now he knows better.

Now he knows she is simply too tired to be afraid.

He takes his usual seat beside her and, as always, Nona lets him carry the heavy burden of her. Closes her eyes as his fingers card through her hair and breathes — so very, very human.

“You look unwell.”

“A fever, nothing more.” But it’s a lie. Told not for his benefit but for hers. Willful ignorance to the thing that’s eating her alive. He can do nothing more for her than he already has — not without gaining his lovers’ attentions. And this, her, is better left a secret for everyone’s sake.

But Kamilah… well. There’s opportunity in youth. Valdas saw that in him, as he sees it in her. Perhaps loyalties have not been cemented just yet.

Obviously the Godmaker cannot keep _all_ of those he creates chained.

“Have you the strength to keep our appointment then?” he asks; voice barely above a whisper.

The ninth daughter sighs—sags with the weight of it—and picks herself up from him. “Yes.”

Kamilah, now no more than an insect on the wall, watches the girl as she brushes aside golden hair, places two fingers on the vampire’s temple. A shudder overtakes her and he _feels_ the coil of the woman’s muscles, readying herself to break the building’s foundations to separate them.

“Ease yourself, Kamilah Sayeed, the Golden Son will not harm me yet.”

And doesn’t that do it — freezes her like painted marble in shock and building confusion.

“How… do you know my name?”

“Nona here knows many things.” He answers. Leaves the daughter of Egypt breathless.

“A seer?”

“Of a sort. She knows that which was, is, and may yet be.”

They are watched with rapture, Kamilah taking in the full understanding of what this young girl is, of what they do here.

But before she can speak again the door opens at the return of her brother, now joined by another; similar in face but taller, more filled around the edges.

Gingerly Cynbel removes Nona’s hand and he nods to Kamilah. “Go and feed. I trust the Godmaker has taught you how and I do not need to hold your hand.”

“You are mad — to think I would leave you alone with her.”

“Didn’t you hear the girl?” He certainly had.

_He will not harm me… yet._

_Yet._ A new and ne’er-before-spoken prophecy. An answer to a question he did not yet know to ask for.

Perhaps it is the presence of so many eyes that causes the younger vampire to relent; though with no attempt to mask her unwillingness. Or, more likely, the hunger has simply become too much. Draws her to the newcomer like a moth to a torch out of the bedroom and back the way they had come.

This time he closes the door himself.

Cynbel sags against the doorway; an exhaustion and release only three people have ever been given privilege to see. One of them is in this room — and is only allowed so because she is not long for this world. He takes comfort in that.

“It was as you said. The Godmaker came and he did not come alone.”

He turns to see Nona’s eyes swimming with tears. How they sparkle in the flickering flame; how they dance. They bring him to her side in an instant and she does not fear what he is — not anymore. Lets them fall because she knows he’s there to brush them away before they pool at her chin.

“Each time… I hope — I hope I’m wrong. Just once. All it will take is once.”

Sometimes he wishes that, too. Especially given what she told him the last time they met. Her words echoing like the bells of war in his head.

“Until that day there is work to be done, sweet girl.” Not that she’s given a choice; he takes her hand and places it back at his temple. No more distractions, no more excuses. “You promised.”

One he intends for her to keep until her dying breath. Whether it come tonight or a decade from now.

And when her head hangs he holds that up, too. Grasps her chin firm and clear. 

“You promised me, Nona. You promised.”

“I promised.”

“Yes, you did. And I will not leave until I get my answer. I need to know, Nona darling. I need to know the events you foresaw; why—how—or-or _when,_ when Valdas is going to kill me.”

* * *

That the brother is left teetering on the edge of his own grave doesn’t come as a surprise when Cynbel finally allows Nona to rest.

“Too busy pouting petulant to heal him?” He scoffs and pushes Kamilah aside, hauls the boy up carelessly by the arm. The wounds aren’t messy — she learned how to make a clean and almost untraceable kill at the very least.

_Listen to him._ He sounds like a tamed beast. _Where oh where have gone the days of cracked-open ribs and hearts left to bloom bloody in the sunlight?_

He’s met with no more than a kohl-rimmed glare, huffs an angry “fine, I’ll do it myself,” before opening a fanged mouth and puncturing the flesh of his palm. There’s nothing ‘concerned’ in the way he smears his blood across the boy’s neck and drops him back on the stone bench to rest.

“I need information only she can provide. So for now — try not to let her brother bleed out like a suckling pig!”

“Raise your voice at me and learn what happens to those who do.”

Raw as he is her attitude is the _last_ thing he needs. Needs, instead, the comfort of bodies tangled with his very much alive and very much not rotted from the inside out. _I won’t let it happen. I won’t, I won’t._

_I’ll save us both, sweet girl. This vision will not come true._

His rage is blind; finds him with a hand around Kamilah’s neck squeezing just shy of popping the damned thing off, finds him back in the alley with splintered wood digging needles into his bare arms.

“Go on then,” he seethes, can _taste_ the blood on her breath so close to him and doesn’t shy away from the cravings that bring out a harder edge, “belly full and the Godmaker as your own — you may very well put up a decent fight.

“But I’ve been doing this for over three hundred years, little newborn. When it comes down to it, you simply will not survive me.”

_Maybe she will. If Nona’s vision comes to pass — most certainly she will._

Cynbel wrenches himself away; looks down at his hands and can’t stop — can’t stop seeing his own blood slick there, the feeling of cold steel sliding warm inside him. It makes him feel weak; fragile in a way the hunter had thought himself incapable of any longer.

Finite in a way only _they_ could cure.

When his eyes flicker up he sees Kamilah standing there, unwounded, and a cool clarity to that which looks back. Young though she may be, hers was never a body to inhabit a fool.

She knows. Maybe not the truth, maybe not even the vision both he and the little seer have suffered thrice now. But she knows something has him scared.

_I won’t. I can’t._

_I —_

* * *

Each time he visits Nona he _knows._ Knows the eyes he feels on the back of his neck with each brand his lovers burn onto his lips in kisses belong to Kamilah. Knows that the little lotus with her honey-golden gaze and her silent stoicism is well aware of his activities even if Valdas and Isseya are not. That each time he returns before the first dregs of morning light bleed into the skies above this strange youngling creature knows more of him than the bodies with whom he has shared everything.

How _relieving_ it is to have that; not to bear the weight of his burden alone. To feel as though if he ever _did_ need to confide in another — not that he would — that he could corner her rather than leave the thoughts to fester and rot in his head.

The Godmaker and his Queen take to Rome with ease. Cynbel and Isseya watch in the shadows at each forum, each congregation as Valdas is forced to flaunt his Maker to yet another member of the Senate, yet another decorated General and heralded soldier. Gaius wins each of them over with ease. And when Kamilah finally chooses to open her pretty mouth so does she.

_“Another foreign delight to grace these halls,”_ muses a portly scholar over the lip of his wine, _“though one must wonder if she carries the same wit.”_

Judging by the look she skillfully hides behind the curtain of her hair, one must not wonder at all.

As Cynbel and Isseya are never far from their god’s side, so is Kamilah similarly close to Gaius. The five of them becoming something of a fixture in Roman society.

So when she is absent on one of the most important nights of the season it’s not something to be missed. As if Isseya’s glee could be contained.

Dutifully at her side — they always must play the married patrons in these affairs, it’s become something of a game between the pair of them — Cynbel watches Marc Antony take his Isseya’s hand to bestow a kiss to the back.

“Your hospitality may very well outlive us,” croons the General against her skin; Isseya preens under the attention—always has, “I had hoped to attend one of your forums upon my return and, may I say, it far exceeds my expectations.”

“What is beauty without a gathering to appreciate it?” And maybe lesser men would feel the first knots of jealousy in the way she looks at the General through half-lidded eyes. But both of her lovers know this game she plays; that she would just as soon bed him as she would eat his tongue right out of his mouth.

Honestly he can see the appeal.

Antony’s head raises to roam eyes over Cynbel, who takes the look in stride. There is always an exchange of power to be had in moments like these. To challenge that exchange is to challenge a man personally. Sometimes there’s nothing he would like better.

He knows the things whispered when they think the sun-haired man who towers over them cannot hear. That they gossip about his sexual activities is no insult to him, but rather an unknowing insult to their own ignorance.

But they are Roman. Ignorance is as much a part of their trade as war and conquering.

He greets Cynbel, _“Pathicus,”_ yet the smirk falls from his expression at the near-delighted grin it pulls to light.

Would the Godmaker not threaten wrath for ruining the evening, Cynbel would take immense pleasure in affronting the man further. Perhaps falling to his knees with a sweeping gesture to lift up the leathers of Antony’s uniform to publicly suck his --

“Here I was under the impression we were to be graced with beauty this night. Yet all I see is Marc Antony.”

Valdas speaks to the man as an equal when he approaches—Godmaker at his side with the same smugness radiating from him as always. Their Beloved has always spoken to the General as if they were old friends but such is how the game is played. 

His lovers know the truth; know the only reason Antony respects his outsider’s opinion in the Senate is for the military clout he earned in order to make them comfortable here.

“No mortal man can have it all.” The men clasp hands in familiar greeting. Out of everyone gathered for their salon only the four vampires present notice the momentary strain of Antony’s muscles — how he tries and fails to win in a silent contest of wills.

“Not that it stops him from trying.”

Valdas withdraws for no sake of his own. Steps back as he’s done a dozen times this last fortnight and offers up Gaius on a marble dais.

“I present Gaius Augustine, my mentor.”

Antony looks between them with a curious frown. Comes to the same conclusion as everyone has insofar; out of the pair of them one would not assume _Valdas_ as the junior of the pair.

But unlike the others Antony has the stones to address it. “Not quite removed from the prime of your youth, Augustine?”

“My life has been blessed by many gods, and in many ways,” Gaius does not allow Antony the option of turning away his hand, “but the pleasure is mine. I’ve been wanting to meet you for some time, General.”

Valdas gestures wordlessly for a servant bearing a jug of wine to approach; gives both men a smile and dismissing nod before he turns to bask in the eyes of his devoted ones.

Isseya’s irritated frown isn’t lost on him, brings him to her side with an arm swept around her waist and lips tickling at her temple. “Ease yourself, darling. You look positively murderous.”

“Am I out of place to think it?” she snaps; uses the folds of Cynbel’s toga to mask the intertwining of their fingers at a shared side.

“Of course not. Were I a mortal to have heard the word uttered with mine own ears he’d not have a mouth with which to say it a second time.”

_Fuck, he’s so in love with them._ “It means nothing to me.”

“It does to _them,”_ Isseya jerks her chin to the gathering of hogs called men of status and learning, “which ultimately is all that matters.”

“Not tonight.”

And it’s the first time his lovers have seen the Valdemaras they worship since the Godmaker’s arrival. Cool and calm and in control of everyone; every _thing_ around him because he will always be _generations_ ahead of even the brightest mind.

The sight is as beautiful as it is terrifying. Beautiful in that any flicker of the vengeful god he fell in love with is desperately needed, and terrifying in that there’s a part of Cynbel that thinks — against his wishes — of Nona’s prophecy looming ever-closer.

Valdas sips his wine as he continues — low enough that only they may hear; “The only thing that matters tonight is securing the attentions of both Antony and the Pharaoh Cleopatra. If they cannot be convinced to be complicit they must be ignorant — such is our only chance.”

Cynbel has a hard time imagining Antony joining the ranks of conspirators that Valdas has aligned himself with. “It is decided then?”

“If not in words, in spirit.”

“I heard a courtesan attempted the same act mere days ago.” Isseya smiles at the stares both her lovers give her; basks in them. “You have to admire a woman such — think us demure and reap a barren harvest.”

“Rest assured, Isseya my sweet, not even fools would call _you_ demure.”

His words earn a snort from Cynbel, who quickly covers it up with a large bite of stuffed date plucked from the closest tray. Lucky for them all attention is being rapidly soaked up by the final guest to arrive for the evening.

Not every day even _they_ host a _real_ Queen.

Isseya takes her leave of them with grace; parts the crowd with her mere presence and begins the well-rehearsed placations of the Egyptian beauty.

Neither Cynbel nor Valdas miss the hunger that gleams in Gaius’ eyes; bright even with the vast room between them — a chasm and the Godmaker the hydra at its bottom.

His god takes him bodily; fills the void left by her with every inch of him. That he does so without a drop of concern for the thoughts of others will always baffle him. It shouldn’t.

Valdemaras always gets what he desires.

“Shame the little lotus would miss tonight of all nights.” He sighs; an afterthought. Only in that it reminds him of his appointment come the next night.

“All this care to conceal ourselves and you would choose _now,_ with the rewards close at hand, to expose us?”

There’s an edge of surprise he isn’t expecting and it’s enough to tear him away from brief glimpses of turquoise veils and the sudden thundering of over a dozen heartbeats. Valdas, too, seems unsure of what he means.

But before he can speak, Valdas gives an _“ah,”_ and understands.

“Kamilah and the Pharaoh are kin. Distant cousins, if I’m remembering correctly. To see her here after she was presumed dead is a risk Gaius will avoid at all costs.”

Suddenly her lashing tongue back that first night makes all the more sense. _Though…_

“If he worries so about _exposure_ perhaps he ought not to leave so many bodies in the streets.”

“My Maker was never one to allow himself to suffer hunger, true enough.”

“We’ve been in Rome nearly a lifetime. Eventually we will have to retreat. It will be the only thing left.”

“I’ve been thinking the same.”

Cynbel’s eyes flutter closed, the touch of a soldier’s roughened palm tickling at his jaw as his god demands of him a kiss; such a meager offering in comparison to the rewards he receives for it. Allows the bend of him to conceal them for the most part — gods do not raise themselves to meet their supplicants.

“And where will we go after Rome is behind us?”

“Anywhere you and our darling girl desire.”

Still blinded, he can’t help the twitch of a grimace those words expose in him.

“And who will join us?”

Valdas’ grip grows tight on his chin; forces him to look into the eyes of his Lord and love. _How could he ever hurt me? When even the necessary death-into-rebirth gave him such sorrow? You’re wrong, seer, you’re wrong._

“None,” says Valdas clipped — even angry perhaps, “none but you and I and Isseya. How it has always been and how it will always be from now until the end of time.”

Cynbel doesn’t mean for the word to come out so broken, it does anyway.

_“Promise.”_ A demand of divinity. His first, though not his last.

“I vow—for this and every turn of the sun onward. I vow, Cynbel my Golden Son, _I vow.”_

The last two words breathed into his lungs, the world around them nothing more than a muted fog on the moors of his human life. _He vows._ So it must be true.

It must.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> definitions:  
>  _lectica:_ an open vehicle transported by two or more carriers often used by nobility and the rich elite  
>  _exedra:_ an exterior room in the shape of a semi-circle, one suitable for conversation  
>  _‘Pathicus’:_ a (blunt) term for the receptive partner in the sexual relationship between two men; intended as an insult that Cynbel takes with pride  
> Thank you for reading, I would love to know your thoughts! Especially at that _ACOR_ bit I threw in there because I couldn't help myself. The Trinity's story is a long and convoluted one and a big thank you to everyone who has followed along so far!
> 
> Find out more about _Bound by Choice,_ the _Oblivion Bound_ series, and the Trinity at my writeblr: [jcckwrites](http://jcckwrites.tumblr.com/)


	2. I.ii. Dictator Inmortalis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Isseya demands an apology.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **chapter content warnings:** language, violence, sexual content

The sun takes her sweet time setting even when the _lectica_ returns; keeps Cynbel, Isseya, and their now semi-permanent fixture of Kamilah in the shrouded doorway rather than out to greet their Makers.  


Isseya finally releases her breath; the same one she holds any time their Beloved leaves in the daylight — however protected. He’s the only one who dares to be so bold as to venture out from the estate and always promises to return to them. Promises, they know, not even death could keep him from breaking.

On a handful of occasions has Isseya come upon Cynbel with a touch of the same madness; each time the same as the last when she moves to his side faster than the servants can blink and wrenches his outstretched hand from the scant sunlight that sets the courtyard aglow.

 _“Madmen, the pair of you,”_ she would scold, cradling his blistering skin with a furrowed brow of concern as rare as Cynbel’s mercy, _“inherited of the blood I bet.”_

And as always he would smile and reply _“And you — immune,”_ with a roll of his eyes, would shake his head and let her dote. She dotes so little but in moments like these… one could never doubt her love for them is just as fierce; just as possessive. She wishes them alive so they may continue to be her treasures. And they continue to let her own every inch of them.

Even now, thick midnight wool pushed aside and the sizable distance crossed by Valdas and Gaius both in a single bound, she is the first to him. Cradles his strong jaw in both hands, lets her nails dig white crescents into his flesh to turn it this way and that.

She almost seems frustrated that there are no wounds upon which she can scold him for. He loves her all the same.

“Satisfied, my sweet?”

Behind them their lover snorts in amusement. “Stupid questions garner stupid answers.” Because, as they both know _full well_ Isseya is _never_ satisfied.

On the edges of his sight stands Kamilah; expression curved something strange before she is swept into the Godmaker’s arms for a passionate exchange. Odd that he’s never seen such intimacy from them before. Or maybe not that odd at all.

Kamilah rests her hand against Gaius’ breastplate when they part. “I take it the Senate gathering was fruitful, then.”

“Oh very much so, my Queen,” so then why does Valdas not share his enthusiasm, Cynbel wonders, “have you ever heard him speak? There is passion there, yes, but so rarely does the power belong to one able to wield it with proper potential. I daresay I was inspired after mere hours in his presence.”

“And as I told you on the journey home, Augustine; such power cannot abide in mortal minds and hands.” Valdas’ counter is the perfect weight of balanced respect and critique, something even Cynbel would argue as insolence.

Yet the way the Godmaker looks at his divine creation — the true expression of inspiration in the eyes of his lovers but seemingly none else — one could assume he offered only the greatest of insults.

“Did I not tell you I would hear no more on the matter? Or are you just being purposefully petulant in front of your _little disciples?”_

All words have meaning but the ones he throws at Valdas he does so with purpose. Knows they will hit his progeny like arrowheads across the space of them, separated. Even Kamilah’s newborn senses are strong enough — enough that Isseya’s intent to act and both of her lovers’ intent to detain her happen within mere hairs of one another.

It isn’t the first time those words have crossed the chasm of God and Godmaker; that much is obvious. And isn’t he lucky they’ve never heard such before…

Cynbel has a feeling that, for once, he and Kamilah are of the same mind: _restrain your lover before things turn sour._ Yet that doesn’t deign it enough to make them act.

Tension viscous about the five of them, then —

Valdas, their Beloved One, their Lord, their Immutable Divinity, bows his head in the presence of his Maker.

_“Forgive me, my King.”_

Cynbel watches the world as if in the slow slumber of a dream; sees Isseya’s open palm collide harsh with their god’s shaved cheek before she leaves in a whirl of her silken _stola._

The curses on her lips are ones so rarely spoken he had nearly forgotten the tongue they came from. Close in blood to Cynbel’s own with a thinner lilt to the tongue.

In the distance — the sounds of crumbling stone and glass clatters to marble tiles. Would bring upon them both a mutual worry for what she would do when the tantrum would turn—inevitably—to their unbreakable bones.

Instead the Godmaker throws his head back and _laughs;_ takes delight in her rage and display. He neither forgives nor disparages Valdas’ behavior. In fact it seems almost as though he’s forgotten the matter entirely. Who knows, maybe he has. Maybe one has that luxury at Gaius’ age.

But at this _Cynbel’s_ current age he has no such thing. He has enough of himself not to follow Isseya’s outburst but only because he refuses to leave his lover with the cruel demon that made him. Now more than ever before.

When he offers it Kamilah takes his hand with ease. Allows herself to be taken along into the depths of the estate. The moon will be full tonight; a beautiful sight among Valdas’ carefully-selected display of flowers from near and far.

Something to enjoy with a lover. If you take the time away from being an absolute _mule’s cock_ to do so. Doubtfully does Gaius do so.

Only now they’re alone — they both hear the _cubiculum_ doors close moments after.

And _oh yes, he certainly is just as angry_ but somehow finds himself even _more so_ as he watches how Valdas rubs at his brow and mutters his frustrations to his feet. 

“Foolish… foolish _foolish_ wraith she is. And now of _all_ hours…”

“Tell me I’m not hearing this.”

The elder vampire looks almost surprised; like he’d forgotten Cynbel was even there. “Now is not the time for arguments, love of mine.”

“I think based on that —” —jabbing a finger in the direction of their flesh-bound _Discordia’s_ path of havoc— “— now might be the best time. Because I need you to explain that to me.”

“Cynbel…”

“No, no no no. I may not have tried to bring this place down around us but be assured, Beloved One, I am _just as angry.”_

They recognized no kings, no pharaohs, none so-named _dictator perpetua._ All ties of blood from mortal miseries and bonds forged had been cleansed in death-into-rebirth.

All these things done for _Him._ Done because their god had asked it of them, because that was part of the price of his love. And nothing had been asked that did not make their transition into this new and better life an easier one.

Yet there he stands, an affront to everything Cynbel has taken into himself before now. He stands and calls this _thing_ which has uprooted their lives more than the disease it is.

He stands and calls him _my King_ like he isn’t divine at all.

 _Why?_ “Why?”

“Because I am bound to him!” shouts the Made-God, “Because I must!”

“Forgive me if I find that hard to take in after generations otherwise.”

“And you wondered why I kept him from you, why I kept anything he even so much as _touched_ as far from the pair of you as I could? This is why!”

“You still have not explained _this,_ whatever it is!”

His Maker sucks in a breath at the ready. For each of their tender moments these, too, are familiar to them. Moments when Cynbel _“shines too bright,”_ so his lover says. Bright enough to burn them all alive.

But he doesn’t. Banishes his anger in one long exhale, instead, and the dutiful priest that he is Cynbel takes it into himself as penance.

 _It hurts._ All the more with Nona’s wavering warning in the back of his mind. _This is nothing new. This is insignificant in comparison to every other part of them._

He reaches out because his body knows better for him than his mind. Feels his hands clasped in the other’s and lets it be the answer that it is.

“You are bound to _no one_ which does not call you what you are. Let him make you but we— _we, Valdemaras_ —have named you. I name you the blood-god Valdemaras. He who can make believers of even the least faithful. Why would you stand here and say you are less than that?”

“To spare you,” to the depths of their _villa,_ “to spare the both of you the indignity of a god chained to a higher power.”

“We do not need to be spared.” Cynbel says — and on behalf of them both.

Before Valdas can speak he presses a long finger to aged lips. Ones he knows better than any other.

“We do not need to be spared,” he repeats, “but we _do_ need to understand. Will you give us that gift? We have more than earned it.”

As if Isseya was going to do anything less than torture it out of their Divine lover, if she must. She’s grown so demanding in the last century… have they spoiled her too much?

_Likely._

After a long silence Valdas nods. 

“Perhaps when I have finished… I will have earned your forgiveness.”

_Less likely._

* * *

He coaxes their Beloved to make good on his word. To ask her forgiveness not with words but with flesh.

At first Isseya looks at the pair of them with contempt and mangled rage. “Don’t you dare touch me, don’t you dare —” That she pulls away from him is a greater wound than any the Godmaker could give, though, and even through her anger Isseya can see it.

And Cynbel, never looked to for the voice of reason, finds her broken trust in an endless puzzle of shards across their shared bed; scattered on the floor and in his worst nightmares carried along the open window on the breeze.

He takes up an abandoned glass of wine, can’t remember who left it there or when. Settles himself across the room from them because he must and not because he wants to. Resisting them like this — in the prime of passions both violent and heartbreaking — will make a true madman of him yet.

“Make him apologize on an altar of his own design. Then… then we will make him explain.”

There’s a brief flicker behind her wounded eyes, there and gone in a heartbeat. Acceptance shown when she eases herself upon the edge of the bed with a fistful of her stola gathered at the knee.

Their god falls to his knees in supplication before her. Does not touch until he is allowed. Does not look upon her face until she deigns it so.

He watches her hike up the remaining silk and take no ceremony in how she pulls him forward between her thighs. She tries to hold out, really she does, but when _just enough_ time has passed for her sated pride Isseya allows herself the gift of a drawn-out moan.

Cynbel doesn’t need preternatural hearing to catch every wet, muffled movement of Valdas’ mouth. He’s seen it enough times — done it enough times himself — to know exactly _what_ is moving _where._ Especially when her grip tightens on their Maker’s dark head of hair; when she urges him further.

She watches him sit — _so far, too far, come to me, come to_ us — but makes no move to bring him to them. Knows there is a pleasure in taking them in as a spectator, too. And of course he finds the mere sight of them beautiful— _ethereal, godly, holy_ —but the last thing on Cynbel’s mind is pleasure.

Can he be blamed?

When the same wicked tongue that whispered to them promises of immortality and a love just as undying moves _just so_ Isseya gives in; gives herself over gracelessly falling to the bed with tanned legs locked around Valdas’ broad shoulders.

If he could he would capture this moment; immortalize it somehow. Though that would mean allowing others the sight of them and that… that is not something he is yet to share. For now they, like stories told on mosaics and across the rounds of vases, are just as permanent.

And that is more than enough.

She finishes; they drink in the beauty of her together if apart. But rather than pull his lovers to the sanctuary of the sheets Valdas instead turns and rests himself on the floor, licks slick and shine from the edges of his mouth but himself seems less than satisfied. _Good,_ a small part of Cynbel thinks.

Then Isseya joins them in their silent reverie. Doesn’t care that she’s exposed, as if they haven’t seen it all before, and gathers their Beloved between her legs to stroke his head gentle and even.

The silence stretches on. Any further, though, and it will surely break.

“My Maker is not the beginning of our kind. But to my knowledge he is the closest thing living. As my blood runs in your veins, his too does the same.” 

When he speaks it is thick as if from a deep slumber. The words within, the knowledge for good or ill they carry, awakened in this inopportune hour because it must be. Because they demand it of him. “How many times in all of our years together have you tried to defy me — either of you, truly?”

Isseya ponders the thought. Cynbel, though — he’s had more than enough time to think about what it means to defy his god. “The feeling is there at times. But it never… _becomes.”_

She nods in agreement. “As soon as the urge rises, it was never there to begin with.”

Given their anger at him Valdas looks more smug than he should. Pride always his personal vice.

“There is a reason for that. A reason beyond our love for one another.” And looking not like himself at all, looking almost _mortal,_ he finally explains.

It takes so very little to hold their attention. Endless fonts are they and this knowledge above all has an importance beyond that of the temporary. Undeniably awe-some, equally fearsome.

Really, he might be asking too much of them this time. He asks them to believe in a higher power other than himself which, by definition, they simply cannot. He asks them to believe in the blood that runs through all of their kind, that connects them to those such as Kamilah — “Who, by virtue of purity, holds a strength over you both. Why do you think I have not enforced her place as my younger?”

Where all blood flows freely in streams from open veins he asks them to understand; not to agree to it, not to follow doctrine on it, but to accept it as fact that the Godmaker controls their will. And they have no choice in the matter.

When his words catch in his throat Valdas looks up to Isseya; a muse. Cynbel watches her bend down, offering guidance in a slow kiss. All of the terrible things churning in the chaos of his mind but this — this he wants to savor. A port in a storm.

“Then answer me this,” leaning forward, elbows on his knees and he wants to _crawl on them_ to his god’s feet, to assuage his worries only revealed to them now because… _because why?_

“You, us, _this_ — would not have happened had his hold on you been irrefutable. You have broken from him before — why not do so again?”

In the waning sunrise a shadow crosses Valdas’ face — its name _Augustine._

“For many years it was naught but Gaius and I. Why he kept us moving, why he immersed himself in developing empires, that was never explained. But I had severed all ties to my mortal life.”

“As we had done,” their darling whispers; and he nods.

“And when I found the opportunity to see myself — all of myself; every passing year in mine own eyes — I realized I had no ties in this new life, either. So in my mind there was no risk in resisting his pull. Looking back on what transpired, now I wonder if he saw no use in keeping me at his side. Maybe what he had done was a freedom for us both.”

His lovers wait — sluggish in that they both realize something holds him back. They exchange looks with furrowed brows like a reflective pool.

He sees the fear in her. Does she see it, too, in him? “Valdas.”

“Hm?”

“Answer my question.”

Their love for him is unconditional, this he knows. Still the words are a struggle to speak. The power of them enough to bring about the end of days.

“No longer is defiance an act without consequence. On a whim Augustine could take everything from me. On a _whim.”_

 _Everything,_ he says. But they understand.

 _Them,_ he means. _Gaius could take them from him._

It’s a knowledge that brings Cynbel back to Kamilah in the alley. Regardless of their conviction, their valiance, their _devotion;_ in the end it would be a useless effort to fight him.

It would mean their end. And there is nothing in the religion of him they carry about what happens when _forever_ comes to a close.

But Valdas’ momentary fractures have already healed. He is, of course, still a god — can heal beyond mortal means. _In the mind, too?_

“So I will see his work done. Then, and only then, has he given me his word that we are free of him.”

A pucker twists Isseya’s gilded face into something wrathful. “For how long? Until he wills it? Until he _has need of you_ again?”

“Yes.”

“No! Refuse!”

He whirls to face her, to take her hands in his and bring them to his face as though from there she can reach deeper. “To refuse him would be to lose you!” Then to Cynbel who catches an unfamiliar misty look in his Lord’s glare. “And you! I would not survive it. I would not… I would not survive it. I would not. Do not ask it of me. I would not.”

They only hesitate because they are uncertain. Uncertain of what exactly has happened tonight, of what has changed here between them and in the space they occupy as a whole. Their faith is shaken; their god weeping at even the _idea_ of losing them. Their belief is renewed; who else upon the earth could say they were worshiped _back?_

And when that uncertainty fades both Cynbel and Isseya are on their knees with divinity in their embrace. Lips given, taken; shared.

“Do not ask it of me,” pleads their love, their light.

And they reply together — as one.

“We will not.”

* * *

When their guests deign to grace the three with their presence some sunset the following day Cynbel finds his patience _truly_ tested. Is forced to watch as the Godmaker and the little lotus behave unchanged; like nothing had happened.

Like their god wasn’t practically forced down on bended knee.

Were he not so well-fucked and with his pleasure taking its sweet time to leave him, he’d take it as the unspoken challenge it is.

Instead he removes himself from temptation, stands from his _klinai_ and plucks from the bottomless pools of his lovers’ affections a kiss from each.

“Leaving so soon?” The Godmaker goads him with a syrupy smile as he reclines and is immediately beset upon by the staff.

He has faced wild beasts thrice his size with less effort than what it takes for him to smile back.

“My apologies, Godmaker. But I have an engagement I simply cannot miss.”

Isseya, when she knows her face is concealed from Gaius’ eyes by a body offering grapes, mouths to him; _“take me with you.”_

Has him grinning with a one-shouldered apology but ready to depart—

If not for the youngling vampire that stops him in the doorway.

“If you would.” Cynbel waves two fingers aside. Can feel three sets of eyes upon the scene they make.

“I would accompany you.”

“Unnecessary.” _You know the dangerous roads I am off to tread._ “This is an appointment in confidence.”

“In the same confidence as my first night in Rome?”

Until now he’s been able to brush off the well-meant concern his lovers have shown for his trips to the city. But they are still so freshly unraveled from one another. He can feel the strange looks they give at his back.

“I suppose the _lectica_ can indeed carry two.” Said through gritted teeth — the glow of victory casting the shadows of the growing night from her face.

One last look back in farewell and he can see the question hovering just there, on the tip of Isseya’s tongue. Hopefully when Cynbel shakes his head she knows it for what it is; that only _present company_ delays him.

Because he had always intended to explain Nona and her mysterium to his lovers. Rather it come up naturally than be pestered with questions of how the two came into one another’s paths…

Any answer to them he must first have himself; and that he simply does not have.

In a show of understanding Valdas reaches over the arm of his _klinai_ to wind a finger around a stray curl at their darling’s temple. 

Their love is not a scale upon which to tip affections and favors as weight — but sometimes it _is_ nice to have the man _on his side_ as it were.

Any haughtiness on Kamilah’s part is dashed away the moment they are out of earshot. A hard thing to do in their case; finds them a few steps short of the _lectica_ awaiting them.

“Whatever your Maker has demanded you learn from me, I will not have it. Fuck off to Herculaneum if you please but you will _not_ be accompanying me.”

Yet Kamilah remains impassive; bored, even. Raises a brow at him before daring to step aside of him and continue on to their vehicle. “Are you quite finished?”

“Take it! I’ve no need for —”

“You will have to extend apologies to your seer child upon your next engagement with her.”

Cynbel’s brain screeches to a halt. “What? Why?”

“Because I have need of a guide of the city. And of the three of you, you seem to meander the streets the most.”

“And why exactly —” when she turns her back on him, Cynbel only calls out louder; damn if they are heard now, _“— why exactly are you in need of a guide to Rome, little lotus?”_

Kamilah despises the affection of the false name. That much is clear in the force with which she yanks aside the privacy curtain to glare out upon him.

Where Cynbel, in full view, crosses his arms over his chest. Where he shall not be moved and where he tries again.

“Where are you looking to go?”

In her eyes petulance bleeds into determination — still the same creature of strange ways and silent observation she has proven herself to be… but now more of what lies buried beneath is beginning to come up from the sand.

“You will take me to the home of your revered Caesar. To my cousin.”

* * *

If the Godmaker has declared it dangerous to entertain such notions, and especially if it may bring his unknown plans to ruin, then Cynbel is more than happy to comply.

Even if it means indulging Kamilah’s whims — forceful outside the villa and growing moreso with every passing hour.

But they are close, now. He had only received invitation to Caesar’s _domus_ once, following the public celebration of the Gauls’ defeat. For Cynbel and Isseya it was the last time for them to bid farewell to memories of ghosts — to take in the sights soon to be eclipsed by the Roman Empire.

Safe to say it was not an easy night to wash from the mind. Even with the pleasures their god had given them. Innumerable though they had been…

“Provide me this clarity,” the first time he’s spoken to her since their departure, “as I was under the impression the Godmaker forbade you from seeing Cleopatra.”

Imagine his surprise when she can only answer him while gazing out upon Rome’s streets.

 _“Forbade_ is… a complicated word.”

“How so?”

“You could say that it does not translate well to my birth tongue. And, as I’m sure you’re aware, my Latin is still a work in progress.”

The urge to call her out on her shit is vanished under the moon’s glow. In its place grows something different; unfamiliar to him. Respect, perhaps? Or dare he dabble in the idea of hope in such a position they have been chained to.

_She defies him in the face of her own wishes._

_Here before him; proof it can be done._ Lounging in unblemished skin and exotic garb; it exists.

Lucky for Cynbel it is enough to bring at least a mildly pleased look about him. Showing up unannounced and without invitation to the home of the most powerful man in the world _scowling at the memory of his ghoulish murder campaign_ probably would have gotten them turned away.

As it is guards beset them the moment they are spotted.

Really and truly he tries his best not to laugh. The Roman Army really took _anyone,_ didn’t they.

Orders followed to the letter, saying the same as they would say to any other; _“Leave,”_ and that is no suggestion, _“or you will be shown away.”_ But to get this far and be left unfulfilled simply will not do.

The honey-flavored words on Kamilah’s tongue remain there as Cynbel coaxes the man forward — grabs him by the jaw and pulls him headfirst against the opening of the _lectica. Oh, how I wish I could have faced you and your little army in my primal days,_ says the look in his eyes.

“You would do well not to deny me.” Say his lips instead. Not a compulsion, per se, nor a threat. Simply something that ignites in mortal kind a fear they cannot fathom; for to do so is beyond their limited and fragile minds. Something that stirs the prey within to _understand,_ to obey. 

For the sake of their feeble skins on fragile bones.

When the soldier is released he is a different man. The fear in his eyes brightened by the moonlight. He turns and orders his companions to be still and allow them entry. They abide his one rule: to do so on their own two feet.

Halfway up the long walk to the _ostium_ he finally gives Kamilah the answer to her unspoken curiosity; the burning of which he can feel licking at his heels even with the space between them kept only for propriety’s sakes.

“My gifts lie in the physical, while it is my other who is skilled in the art of the malleable human mind.”

“I have seen such prowess from Gaius.”

“They may be the best of them, but it would be well for you to remember, little lotus, that humans are mere animals. Smart ones, but subject to the same laws of the animal kingdom as any other.”

To prove his point Cynbel fixates on their guide’s back; at the point where the spine curves up into the neck. A vulnerability in most armors often ignored in favor of protecting the fleshy middle.

The world continues on around them. Seconds passing… _until…_

The soldier whirls around, hand on the scabbard of his blade on an impulse even he does not understand. The scent of fear lies heavy at his brow and under his arms; hairs on their backs standing on alert. They scream in a language he does not know. _Be afraid, watch your back!_

The vampire’s face melts easily into a placating smile, the barest raise of his eyebrows in questioning. “Something the matter?” he asks, and it is shame that turns the soldier’s head back to lead. To regain some semblance of power over them.

Power he does not have; has never had and will never hold.

Cynbel grins in amusement — feels it grow at the sight of a smirk on the lips of his temporary apprentice.

“The lion does not have the intelligence to know why it stalks its prey, but we do.”

“Why, then?” asks Kamilah.

“Because even the most meager of meals is made succulent with the taste of fear.”

And they, hedonistic creatures that they are, delight in the richer things in immortal life.

The soldier leads them through into the _atrium._ Demands patience of them both while a servant is dispatched to summon the master of the house.

He had hoped, before they were welcomed, for a chance to ask of the woman _why_ the need to meet with her cousin had compelled her this of all nights. 

As if he should be so lucky.

The resemblance between them is an impossible coincidence, perhaps one only he can notice, as he sees them both as they are and without reflection. Were they dressed in the same fashion Cynbel may have even faulted one for the other.

But as the Pharaoh Cleopatra comes into the light he falls silent. Takes in the length of her body in sheer wrappings, teasing flashes like a seductive performance each time she passes a torch. The way she walks — lithe, catlike in fluidity and intensity — he would almost confuse her for one of their own. Yet the blood that flows through her is not so easily missed even by the creature which has eaten more than its fill.

Kamilah bows. He follows her lead not out of respect but because they must. Because this world works in such strange ways.

The mortal queen’s eyes roam between them with a marbled expression. Credit where credit is due — not a flicker of emotion betrays her until she desires it. Until she fixates on Kamilah.

 _Does some part of her know?_ Fascinating, if so. That the bonds of blood born are so strong even now.

“Bold of you to demand audience at such an hour,” Latin sliding skillfully from her tongue, Cleopatra takes up the lip of the closest _impluvium;_ another of the foreign treasures on display around them.

Cynbel keeps his eyes forward purposefully. Kamilah, however, finds the Pharaoh to be the most valuable of them all.

“It is not Caesar whom I seek.”

“Who then, child?”

“Who else?”

Obviously the trait of questions answering questions is a familial one.

“A long journey to be made for audience with us, then.”

“Yet I assure you, Your Grace, any journey made is one worthwhile.”

Silent and expectant Kamilah waits. Until Cleopatra’s natural curiosity seems to overflow; gestures in some allowance to be approached and Kamilah wastes no time in doing so. Takes to her side on bended knee and the sight of it sets him uneasy. Like something of an intruder.

The wealth and success of Rome is shown in every stone and tile of Caesar’s _domus._ Why wouldn’t it be? Had they the ability to keep all which they have taken in victory no doubt the halls of Cynbel and his beloveds would be the exact same. A testament to their years, to their conquests.

A testament to their devotion to their god and to one another.

He clings to the shadows of the _peristylium._ Keeps a faint ear out for the conversation between Kamilah and Cleopatra — now spoken on their shared tongue with which he is admittedly less fluent.

When at first he hears the sound of sandal-clad footsteps he assumes — that is his first mistake. No, not his first.

His first was agreeing to bring the Godmaker’s child here in the first place. It risked not only the wrath of Gaius upon his beloved, but everything within Rome they had built.

“Bold is the man who wanders stranger’s halls as his own.”

 _Not a servant at all then._ Cynbel withdraws his curious touch from a withered fern but keeps his back turned, folds his hands behind him to assure the approaching Caesar that he carries no weapons and means no ills.

For men such as them, men of battle and blood, actions mean far more than words ever could.

“Bold,” he repeats, “or perhaps foolish. Which is the man before me, I wonder?”

He looks down upon Julius Caesar as he does all men. Across the shallow pool to where the human’s heart thunders in his breast. What he doesn’t expect is the recognition that carves itself on the man’s expression.

“I would hope to say neither,” answers Cynbel warily, “though Caesar may say otherwise.”

“May he indeed.”

 _“Imperator,”_ he finally greets, one hand at his front in a low bow; only done for the sake of mortal pride. Pride that shines in the eyes of the man as he approaches.

“Indeed,” Caesar continues, “the man before me may be neither bold nor foolish, but cunning above measure. An assassin, perhaps?”

Cynbel’s tongue gets the better of him. “Were I an assassin Caesar would be none the wiser.”

“I should hope not. Lest he find himself in need of a profession to which he is better suited.”

“Then let Caesar sleep soundly that he will wake come morning light, and that Death does not yet come for him.”

He straddles a dangerous edge, threatening the most powerful man in Rome as flippantly as he does now. Yet there’s a foreign strand in the rope tense between them; one that winds around the columns surrounding them in a complicated array that dances, seemingly alive, with each tug of the knot wrapped around their fists.

Caesar throws his head back and laughs; gives Cynbel tie to school the surprise away from his features. Not that he finds it difficult — any man who has stared down the end of a blade has made peace with death in some form or another. Why should Caesar be any different?

 _Because,_ whispers a voice in the back of his mind, _he sounds not at peace, but looks down his nose in victory._

“Laugh at your leisure,” said through gritted teeth; not yet sharp but inching closer with each breath, “for Death is not as kindly a picture as the poets paint.”

“And how is Death then, hm? From one who has seen it with his own eyes.”

_“Hungry.”_

But if at first he thought the word a victory in their war of wits, Cynbel soon realizes the trap he has allowed to ensnare him. Words are pretty things and the Golden Son of Valdemaras was never led astray by them before. When words fail, the educator is left vulnerable. But the soldier can always fall back on his fists if needed.

Though he has a feeling punching Caesar may not have the same effect.

The man before him now is more than one of wit — he knows. Damn him to Hades should he know how but he would only be playing blind to say otherwise.

“Interesting, very interesting.”

_Enough of this._

Cynbel should know to run — in the moment that he crosses the width of the courtyard, brings his full height to measure against such a feeble and mortal title as _Imperator,_ and sees that very same mortal give naught so much as a flinch at the display. He should run, _lectica_ abandoned, and gather his lovers in his arms while there is still night to cover them as they flee. Away from Rome. Away from the Godmaker and his Queen.

Away from Julius Caesar; who knows there are creatures beyond mortal that walk among him and is not afraid.

But it is for those same lovers that he stands his ground. Bares blood-red eyes and fangs that have felled more than Caesar’s sword ever could.

“You think this the first time such impossible things have come across me?” And to his horror Caesar’s hand comes up and strokes across the swell of his cheek; thumbs at his fangs and delights in how easily his flesh yields to them. At the noise it evokes when blood falls on the vampire’s tongue.

“I have seen things that would make even creatures such as you cower in fright. I have weathered them all as a mortal Caesar, though not for long.”

His words leave Cynbel speechless; bring about him a feeling of uncertainty he had thought abandoned with his mortality. Thoughts impossible to count whirling through his mind — thoughts of the last time he darkened the commander’s doorstep; that time not alone. And even the idea of exposure, of putting them at risk…

But no, no it cannot be. Surely an ego such as this would not have allowed him to let them leave; not if they could provide for him something as rare as true immortality.

_Something had changed. But what?_

Did it matter, though? He looks down at Caesar and sees a man on the cusp of something great. But not yet there. Still mortal underneath his breast and all the way within. No matter what aspirations Caesar carried in the darkness of his heart they were still merely that; aspirations.

“They have a warning for men like Caesar.”

“There are no men such as I.”

“Wrong. They name your kind Icarus.”

It makes the man sneer. “Yet my aspirations are easily within my grasp. I would take your head for your insolence but find myself merciful only in that the creature before me is a true vision as to what I will become.”

_What I will become._

There is no room for misinterpretation. Gone are the painted words for they no longer have use.

 _Dictator Perpeuto,_ no longer. He has set greedy eyes on a higher calling.

_Dictator Inmortalis._

When Cynbel bats the hand away from his face he makes no effort to pretend to be anything other than his truth. Hears the _pop_ of Caesar’s shoulder against the force of him and revels even briefly in the satisfaction it brings.

“Know this,” snarls Valdemaras’ firstborn; the Golden Son bathed in blood who captured the heart of the spirit of death and never truly let it from his grasp, “Death comes for _all mortal men,_ and mortality reeks upon Caesar foul and filth. And in that moment he should come to know his victories, his armies, all the land underfoot of him mean _nothing._

“I look forward to seeing Caesar’s end — and know it will be a _permanent one.”_

Cynbel feels the weight of Caesar’s eyes at his back as he departs in rage barely tempered. _Good. Let him see what he is unworthy of._

_“Sayeed!”_

His voice echoes across the marble walls and threatens with Jupiter’s wrath to bring them down. That the whelp child of Augustine does not come running only surges his anger forward unchecked.

_“Sayeed! You will leave with me or be left behind!”_

He rounds back into the _atrium_ where Kamilah and Cleopatra both stand, both take in the swelling fury of him each with different eyes. Kamilah, uncertain.

“Cynbel, what is the meaning of —”

“I doubt you hard of hearing. We leave this wretched place _now,_ or I will leave you behind.”

The younger vampire looks hastily between her kind and her kin, words with no time to be said hanging on the edges of her lips. Unbidden the Pharaoh’s hand snatches her wrist and holds it tight. A strange and curious understanding coming over her.

“He names you _Sayeed?”_

“It is —”

“I know that name. How do I know that na —”

By the time realization dawns in her kohl-rimmed eyes Kamilah and Cynbel are gone, vanished from that wretched place as though they were never there to start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> definitions:  
>  _ostium:_ the entrance to the domus (home)  
>  _cubiculum:_ the bedroom  
>  _Discordia:_ Roman Goddess of Chaos  
>  _stola:_ traditional garment worn by women  
>  _klinai:_ lounging furniture common in Roman homes  
>  _impluvium:_ a small marble-lined pool to collect rainwater  
>  _peristylium:_ outdoor porch around a courtyard
> 
> Remember, the third and _final_ part of the Trinity's story in Rome is next week! From there we're fast-forwarding quite a bit to _16th century Paris_ if that rings any bells... Comments and critique would be fabulous. Thank you for reading!


	3. I.iii. Divine Intervention

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cynbel saves a seer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **chapter content warnings:** language, violence, blood, choking, mentions of death

By the time he arrives back to the estate Cynbel’s anger has given way to fright; one thought consuming him above all others.  


_They need to leave Rome. They should already be far, far from here. Far from Caesar and his notions of immortality._

“Valdas! Isseya!”

_“Cynbel?”_

Her voice draws him to her, standing just outside the doors of their shared chambers with the red of a fresh meal still dripping down her chin.

He sweeps Isseya up in his arms and kisses her fiercely. Half to remind himself that she is there, she is safe. Half because _what else can he do, he’s powerless, has never_ been _powerless, cannot fathom it without her, without_ them.

The lust is dashed from her eyes the moment she takes him in fully. “What is it? Cynbel, what has you so?”

“Where is Valdas?”

“I asked you —”

_“Where is he?!”_

She tears his grasp from her arms and forces him back — enough to return him to sanity if only for a moment. She’s never abided him like this and would not start now. And isn’t he fucking thankful for it.

“Bring yourself back to sense and I _may_ feel inclined to answer,” his darling snaps through vicious teeth. Only when he sags against the now cracked wall with his hands spread out — _vulnerable, they are all too vulnerable_ — does she make good on her words. Holds his upper arms in a deceptively strong grasp and skirts her nose along his jaw to bring a comfort only she can. In a way only she knows.

“You’re frightening me,” she admits, he can hear the waver in her voice even now, “I haven’t seen you like this in so long, so very very long.”

He can’t even remember the last time this mania consumed him. But she’s good at bringing up old wounds, at cutting in the same place time and time again.

 _“Iss’…”_ Cynbel loses the last of his fight, his body yields. But it isn’t enough to ease his mind. Nothing but the death of Caesar will do that.

“Was it the Godmaker’s whelp that made you so?”

“No.”

“Swear it. I know you’ve taken to her.”

He knocks their temples together. Bestial headbutting; primal acknowledgment that she’s talking utter fucking nonsense. “Do not insult me so.”

“Not _taken her,”_ though her fondness comes through, “I would make you a eunuch if you even so much as entertained the thought. But she knows something you keep hidden from us. Call me a liar.”

He can’t, so he doesn’t.

Which is all the answer she needs. “I thought as such,” and moves to pull away from him but no, no not now. Now cannot be one of the times for her tantrums because there is so much at risk and _they need to find their beloved and leave._

“Believe me now, my love, and I will never give you reason to do otherwise again. For as long as we live. I swear it to you.”

It’s an openness from him that Isseya is unfamiliar with. Enough so that the gravity of his behavior finally seems to come over her. A veil somehow lifted.

“Where. is. Valdas?”

Her eyes flicker towards the depths of the villa yet the relief he hopes for does not yet come. Because his gut knows what else lies within, perhaps.

“Rome is no longer safe for us. We need to leave.”

“What madness is this?

“Our Beloved plans to join the conspirators but they have already failed.”

“What are you rambling about?”

Before he can answer the sounds of the _ostium_ opening catch the lovers’ ears. With them, a wrath he had hoped was lost among the winding pathways of the city.

Instinct has Isseya in his grasp, holding her close as Kamilah darkens the doorway. Eyes glowing red the moment they land upon him and fangs bared. 

“I’ll kill you!”

She rushes forward but to them her speed is childish; fumbling. Easily dispatched with a wave of Isseya’s arm as she steps in front of Cynbel with a mirthless laugh.

“The day such is possible, _whelp,_ will never come. Accept that and you may live to see tomorrow at the very least.”

But the defiant Kamilah stands, wipes away the powder of crumbled marble from her cheek and of everything to go afoul this night Cynbel finds this to be the strangest of them.

“I did not force you to leave at my side. Turn your anger inward.”

“You _imbecile!”_

“I’ll have your fucking tongue!”

“Isseya! Still yourself,” he looks between them and forces himself calm through sheer will; remembers now why they chose to live away from what few others of their kind roamed the hills in the wilderness — passionate creatures were the children of the night.

Kamilah speaks again through ragged breaths; physically healed but in her eyes churned a storm unchained.

“You named me Sayeed, you wretched thing! Did you think I would truly go to the Pharaoh and give her my true name even now when it was the Pharaoh herself who gave my brother word of my demise? That we may be revealed is on your head, _brute.”_

Beside him, Isseya swears under her breath. “Tell me you didn’t, beloved. Tell me you are not so craven for war _so soon.”_

“What I am _craven_ for is survival.” He manages through gritted teeth.

“Is that in doubt?”

“It may very well be.”

Even with all of their years now, of all hours, time is not theirs to waste. Clutching for her again, Cynbel presses an open mouth to Isseya’s temple, pulls her with him away before it is too late.

* * *

“Cynbel? Isseya? What happened?”

Their god is upon them the moment they enter the _exedra_ with Kamilah unwillingly in tow. From his bench the Godmaker makes no attempt to hide his distaste; curls his lip upwards in a silent snarl.

There is peace in seeing Valdas unharmed — in feeling his face held in the same hands that made him. Even temporary, it is enough. Straw-like strands stick to his brow as his Maker does everything in his silent power to bring about a calm.

But this is no mere fit of madness. It burns Cynbel from the inside out, makes him see the hollow clarity of the Godmaker’s eyes over his lover’s shoulder and want to act as sword and shield.

“Ease yourself, my Golden One,” his grip as rough as needed, words thick with a worry he refuses to let show in his eyes; _always the stronger of them, always burdened so they may not be,_ “surely the theatrics have no place here.”

“Are you safe? Are you unharmed?”

Because he knows better, knows his lovers, Valdas steps back and gestures wide; allows them both to see him in all of his perfection and glory. Untouched, unblemished — for the moment.

“Of course I am.” And because, too, he has seen these fits of mania before, Valdas seeks answer from Isseya foremost. “Why would I be otherwise?”

Her venom spits at the dirt before the Godmaker’s feet.

_“Ask him.”_

Only the guilty who carry shame play in innocence. Gaius stands and holds out a hand; an offering. But the intended does not take it. Kamilah stands still with furrowed brow. An act minuscule in its defiance; but with purpose served.

“Kamilah, my Queen…”

“They know, Gaius.” 

Slowly the hand falls back to his side. His fist clenches briefly, knuckles _pop-popping_ in an echo around the curved room, then gone as if nothing had changed, as if nothing were the matter.

“I see,” with all the temperance of discussing the cloudy night, “and how did this come to light?”

Valdas senses the shift in tension, warily steps between his lovers and his Maker; “Have you care to enlighten those of us blind?”

Apparently he does not. Waits for Kamilah to answer him — she may reject his hand but he is still her King, her Maker, and he will not be denied.

“The victory at hand, it seems, has loosened Caesar’s tongue.”

“Brilliant tactician though he may be, that will need to be trained out of him.” The _tsk tsk tsk_ of the Godmaker’s tongue, such a simple and universal act, sends throughout Cynbel an unease that coats him bodily; makes him feel unclean, despoiled.

 _“Caesar?”_ parrots the Made-God in confusion; rising suspicion, “what does Caesar have to do with this?”

Then, because the pieces aren’t fitting together in quite the right way, he rounds on Cynbel. “Why were you taking audience with Caesar?”

“I would quite like to know that myself.”

Even with the full weight of the Godmaker’s stare upon him, Cynbel refuses to give him the satisfaction. A silence not for her sake but that keeps Kamilah’s secret, too.

“Have you gone dumb, boy? Your _precious deity_ has asked you a question!”

The same curl of the tongue as the night before; disgust not quite contained — not deserving of it in his mind. Though to think of what lurks in the Godmaker’s mind is a punishment he would kindly never suffer.

“Caesar knows what creatures wander Rome come nightfall. He knows of us… speaks as if to stand among us, beside us as an equal.”

Brow creased, Valdas shakes his head. “Impossible.”

“Would I lie to my beloved? He gazed upon me a mortal with knowledge beyond his means. Said not in words but intent; to become _Dictator Inmortalis_ with the blood of our kind running the rivers of his veins.”

 _Would I lie to my beloved?_ Words overcast that hang in the depths of his lover’s eyes and the pain of them may be too much for Cynbel alone to bear.

And like she shares a home in his mind — and she very well may — Isseya reaffirms her presence beside him. Complete and utter faith; belief in _him…_ in _them._

_He is never alone._

An understanding comes over Valdas, then. Across his face a hardness; something that does not suffer fools nor being made the fool. That finds him facing his Maker not as the cowed progeny of before but, perhaps, the firstborn who had created the distance between them so many centuries ago.

“Should Caesar find himself among our kind, no blade would fell him. None that mattered; none used by the likes of the conspirators of the Senate.” _None used by the likes of me._

The accusation is clear, yet Gaius remains unperturbed.

“Such is the consequence of those who stand in the way of power.”

“What power does he not already covet?”

“How small-minded you’ve become, Valdemaras; fixated on your narrow existence. On these _children_ of yours. Are you truly blinded to the potential laid out before us?”

_“Us?”_

“Our kind!” cries the Godmaker with a voice that might wake the heavens; “The future I created you for, the one we sought together! The very reason you continue to walk this earth no matter your defiance of me.”

“The world we stand in now is a vastly different one than when I last drew mortal breath, Augustine. The Empire of my birth is no more. Surely Rome, no matter her glory now, will see the same fate.”

“Not as my plans come to fruition.”

“Plans to—to what, to _extend_ the power of Rome through the immortal hand of Julius Caesar?” He scoffs. “We both know him a madman lurking beneath a countryman’s smile. If you still begrudge me my betrayal of you, I would claim that nothing compared to what he might do when you pull on his strings.”

Haughty, defiant; Gaius gestures wide in a grin that bares all of his teeth. “You were the mistake from which I learned the greatest lesson. Caesar will be Turned and brought to heel. And when that is done, the great work of rebuilding the Kingdom She Promised will finally begin.

“You are right, my soldier. Your Empire fell; it began long before I walked your lands and despite my best efforts could not be saved. But with Caesar at my hand, how much of Rome will follow? How much of Egypt once the Pharaoh stands beside us?”

He stands proud, basks in his own glory and might. Looks to find the adoration of his Queen but finds only confusion; a dawning understanding.

“You mean to Turn Cleopatra.”

“I mean to see my promises kept. If that means bringing the rulers of even the smallest kingdoms under my thumb then so be it.” This time Kamilah takes his offered hand. Joins her King as the Queen by his side. 

Why should he find himself surprised by it?

“Enough of this.” Gaius continues with a flippant wave of his free hand, “I’ve entertained your pilgrimage for long enough, Valdemaras. Tomorrow will come and your childish plotting will come to a head. When Caesar rises from the bloody hands of his conspirators he will be revered and given absolute power over Rome, the Senate, all of it.

“Where will you stand witness? At my side, or under my rule?”

The answer is an easy one for the likes of Isseya, the likes of Cynbel. Who look at one another with grave unease. All of the events circling around them overhead as vultures do the dying wanderer.

Their love and Light said so himself. _To refuse him would be to lose you._

_Do not ask it of me. I beg of you._

And what had they answered? Perhaps the only thing they could to ease his aching heart, to bring their god back to his former self because they could not bear the sight of him so broken, wounded… so _mortal._

_We will not. We will not._

They grasp at one another desperately. For him, too, but not quick enough. Valdas steps out of their reach and they want to scream for him, go back on their shared word. _Anything to spare them this. To spare_ him.

“Valdas, please —”

“Do not do this —”

But words spoken in vain mean little now. Only serve to call them liars, to call them unfaithful in the eyes of their god.

But is it a god who falls on bended knee, takes his Maker’s touch in clasped hands and kisses the ring there? It certainly does not look so. It looks like a man losing his world in one simple act.

_Or, perhaps, saving it._

The Godmaker’s pride is as venomous as it is stifling. Brings his chin raised high as he takes in the sight of Valdemaras’ beloveds. The things that he would do anything for — that much has been proven enough.

“And your progeny?” _Who are not worth the address._

Who bite their tongues until they bleed, who swallow blood and bile and tears down because _he has done the same for them, how could they do anything less than follow him even into this?_

Their silence is their submission. Down the line, with an ego fat with supped blood and power taken from all corners of the world, he may demand of them a formal oath. And down the line, starved of one another, they may be too weak to do anything but swear it.

For now he takes his Queen and departs. Leaves Valdas low, sinking lower still.

Of one mind and two bodies, Cynbel and Isseya rush to his side, envelop him in them. Show him proof with trembling touch that his act was not in vain and they live. _They live._

* * *

_Fuck pleasantries._ He wrenches the feeble door from its feeble hinges and sends it hurtling across the alley. It smashes against the stone front of the _domus_ across like rotted driftwood.

There’s a hint of his true nature in his darkening of their doorway. Filling the space with broad stature and the hunt in his inhuman eyes. Staring up at eight terrified faces huddled around their meager meal.

Every visit before this he has been almost sickening in his placation of them, the mortal curs. No longer.

“The girl.”

Too weak to take part in the bonds of family. Trembling in her bed not out of fear of him but fear of herself and what she has seen, what she may see still. Cynbel scoops her up in his arms and feels nothing when she seeks a warmth in him that does not exist.

 _“Domine…”_ and were he capable of kinder words he may tell her to save her strength, for her sake—for his, but as it is every thought must be held back on the tip of his tongue lest he start screaming and never, never stop.

“This night will not be your last, not while I have use of you yet.” By any means necessary he will keep her alive.

Bringing Nona back to the _villa_ is impossible. Were the Godmaker to come into possession of her, what little hope the lovers had left would be dashed. But to leave her under the same roof visited by his Queen was to leave her equally vulnerable.

Surrounded on all sides, there was only one place he could think of which would grant the girl sanctuary in her final days.

On the steps of the Temple, basins of flame barely aglow at the midnight hour, the priestess barely looks the pair of them over before turning them away. But all it takes is a foot to step with, to stop the stone door with a strength no human could muster.

He may only have his One God but the Romans had many, with many names and many faces among them. But what were the gods of mortals but powers beyond their understanding?

“Turn her away and you turn away the eyes of your Minerva herself.”

The pale woman bundles her _palla_ up closer as if to best the wind that whistles through the open doorway. But her caution is her undoing — catches her glittering skin in the vestiges of the flames and eyes a little _too_ wide, _too_ aware.

That he does not pull back her veil to reveal the tips of her unnatural ears is only because now is a most desperate hour.

“The girl is an innocent, she is not of my blood.”

The etherie gives Cynbel the full weight of her glower. Eyes that have already seen a thousand years, maybe a thousand more still. That judge him _unnatural_ and of the dead.

“The girl has chosen her fate, twining with those of the children of Phampira.”

“What _fate_ is yet to come will reach far — even to your ‘tween realm. Whether you believe in my attempt to stop it or no, know that is _my_ prophecy, and it will come true so long as Gaius Augustine wanders Rome.”

It is the name that churns the pot, that has the woman of unearthly magics giving cautionary looks about the abandoned temple steps before ushering him inside.

The smell of their foulness tickles at his nose and burrows like maggots beneath his skin. An itch he cannot scratch, the remnants of which he will feel for weeks to come. Such is the price of survival.

The eldest of them directs stragglers with an unfamiliar tongue. He can feel their glassy stares both direct and lurking afar as the two return with a thin bedroll and some meager excuse for a blanket. Somehow it still feels more substantial than what they had left at Nona’s home.

Their eyes at his back send gooseflesh racing down his arms; still his touch to her damp brow before he can collect himself — before he can work to block them out. This is a sanctuary and nothing more.

“I need you to gather your strength now,” he whispers vainly; knows those around catch his every word even as they skitter off like the fearful wild, “I have need of you yet.”

The first, the High Priestess, approaches on hesitant feet and leaves a clay bowl and cloth at their side. Looks Nona over wise and all-knowing.

“You have stretched this life beyond its means.”

“Save your judgment, etherie.”

“How many more lives will be lost in the storm that gathers at your heels?”

“However many it takes to keep my Beloved safe.”

As though summoned by his words the girl stirs beneath his hand. Clutches with a pale hand for him and she feels more than fragile, more than mortal. She feels as faint as smoke. The embers of her struggling to hold on in the downpour.

With glassy eyes Nona gazes up; looks at him without truly seeing. Moves her peeling lips in words unspoken; visions untold.

Yet no amount of his blood will heal her of this ill. As if he would not have tried it first? He knows the creature beside him could heal her easily. The effort of which would take no significant amount of its eternal years. Yet she watches idle; watches the girl while her life force fades still.

“Cyn…bel…”

Humans are warmth; filled with the heat of passion and life like he can no longer remember. Yet Nona beneath him is cold; grows colder. “I’m here, sweet girl. What do you see?”

He rests her silken touch on his temple, feels the sweat on his brow where gossamer strands stick to his skin.

Nona’s breathing grows ragged — stones in her lungs. The High Priestess can take no more and turns away, her veils lapping at her bare heels. So long as they give her rest it matters not.

“What do you see?”

“Blood. The river… the river runs of blood.”

“Through Rome?”

“Through the world. Spreading… spreading dark, dark out to the sea. Everything it touches; blood. In the lakes, the streams, ocean shores of salted froth and blooded rain falling in torrents. The Kingdom She Promised.”

_There it is again._

The same words Gaius had said back in the _exedra._ A promised land — but for who? Where, and why? A promise to his Queen, Kamilah? Or was there a shadow unseen, behind the long tapestry of their kind made in the Godmaker’s wake, darker and beholding a creature even they could not fathom?

“She promised him peace,” says Nona; shakes Cynbel from his confusion because _now was not the time to wonder of the future, the future that would matter not should he lose his love;_ “forged a blade of a broken shield. Yet now… now it has no master to wield it. The blade cannot wield itself. The blade cannot wield itself.”

Cynbel grits his teeth, resists the furrow in his brow. “That matters not. To me, seer, _to me,”_ letting her tiny palm cradle his cheek, “I need you to see what he will do to my love. Will he be killed should the Godmaker succeed? Will Caesar if blooded of him?”

He would not call her petulant. Can see the toll taken on her even now. Any of a lesser faith would call her afflicted; possessed. Would stifle her gift but he needs it to flourish. If he is to save them it _must._

“Answer me, seer. Should Caesar Turn, _will my beloved die?”_

A spectre passes over her. Nona convulses, then grows still. Lids heavy over eyes dull and near lifeless. Her blood slow, sluggish through her muddy veins.

“Nona — Nona—!”

If what she alone can see be not enough to stir her then so be it — he will be the monster of the abyss. Lets her hands fall limp to the stone floor and grasps her by the throat with a hand that betrays the true fear held back on threads of a barely-contained wrath.

Not long before what little breath she takes is a struggle; her heartbeat picking up in desperation. Eyes flying wide open as a flush overtakes her cheeks and Cynbel stares down unfeeling; no longer willing to be denied what he has been promised.

The world has always best responded to violence. Why should this be any different?

He allows himself — however briefly — to relish in the familiar sight of humanity ebbing from her expression as the animal instinct to survive takes over. Those same parchment-thin hands suddenly clawing at his stronger grip and this time when she tries to speak he knows he has the power to change it.

That’s why he uses her. For the power to change things beyond his knowledge. All of it; for them.

“Are you ready to answer me now?” He asks. Squeezes just… a little… tighter…

Nona continues to choke even when he releases her. Weakling lungs desperate to fill; to breathe — forcing her up through the pain of her affliction to choke and heave and grasp at her throat to remove even the memory of him from her flesh.

But that is a mercy Cynbel will no longer grant. His fingers tangle in her dark tresses — pulls her forward with a harsh tug to bring them intimately close.

He will not ask again. Nona’s life is in her own hands, now.

And fleeting though that life may be — she is desperate for it. “First the Empire, then the Pharaoh’s lands. Every Empire bathed in mortal blood — each crown dipped in his blood—by his hands. This world will fall, the New World will never rise. The dead cannot flourish — the shadow cannot grow. Caesar cannot Turn. It will be the end of everything.”

_The end of everything._

_The end of them. The end of him. The end of everything they have built._

Nona keens a strangled cry as he pulls her close — holds her aching, grieving. Her tears seep warm into his tunic and if she could she would no doubt wrench herself from him but the seer is weaker now than ever.

 _“‘For every pain there is purpose,’”_ Cynbel whispers into her skin; kisses there fond but not friendly — a gesture without love, _“‘and every wound bore will bring wisdom.’”_

What a comfort those words are. How they wrap around him like strong arms in the moments before the end.

He isn’t going to kill her now. He will; he has little choice in the matter. It has been seen… and cannot be undone.

“Thank you for all you have done for me, my sweet seer. For as long as I live I will be forever in your debt.”

Cruel though he is, it is not in his nature to be ungrateful. He waits until the sobs no longer wrack her body uncontrollable to lay her back upon her bedroll. He soaks the nearby cloth and wrings the water cool over his fingers before letting it rest on her weary eyes. Could the same thing be done for her inner eye he would offer a balm there, as well.

The vampire stands to take his leave; hesitates as he takes in from a distance just how _small_ she is.

“You understand what you have done this night, child of Phampira.”

Cynbel schools his face in cool disinterest as he turns to face the High Priestess. Veils now fallen upon her shoulders, in the dark shimmers of their otherworldly etherie-fire she can be nothing other than what she is; with hair of snow that frames a face of youthful eternity and feline eyes that look upon him and name him _behemoth._

“Ne’er again will you step within these halls. Lest even under the moon you feel the boiling of the sun’s light ignited in your veins.”

And he knows the threat is a real one — knows the dangers of those of his kind who have dared to tread over the toes of the etherie. Just as he knows the greed that lies beneath their radiance; greed of gold, of things deemed precious to the world of men.

_She will be safe here._

At the base of the Temple of Minerva Cynbel stops and turns his face to what little he can stand of the paling sky. Tastes of the clouds on his tongue and allows himself the burden of memory.

 _“‘It is in the nature of us to covet, for we are because we could not choose between death and life.’”_ And as his first and only glimpse of divinity had whispered such gospel in his ear and cradled him in death-into-rebirth, he found them true.

* * *

Marcus Brutus changes everything.

When last Valdemaras met with the Senator Cassius it was to convince him to steal away their conspiracy in the night. Not only to secret their machinations to the shadows rather than risk arrest at the hands of Caesar’s loyal, but also to ensure his attendance; for the vengeful god Valdemaras was eager to see the Conqueror of Gaul and the Empire of Rome undone in the name of his beloveds.

But a vision comes to Brutus in the same dawn that reaches Cynbel’s hasty retreat from the temple.

 _“The Fates whisper to me,”_ he tells Cassius fearfully, _“in such horrible voices. They whisper with the tongues of the dead by Caesar’s hand. They demand him slain at the feet of his Senate. They demand him seen by all, even those who would placate Caesar.”_

Even men of little faith such as a Roman Senate do not ignore a righteous calling such as that. They use it to steady their trembling hands, to give justice in their traitorous steel.

So it is done. Caesar does not see sunset on the Ides of March.

He dies a mortal man; surrounded by enemies of his own making.

 _Godmaker,_ they call him. And the name rings true. His wrath—enough to stir the heavens and send the sun cowering early into the night.

Bone clutched in sheet-white fists and fangs grit to draw blood between his tongue; his demands not met by an intervention perhaps more sacred than divine. Even his Queen steps clear of his path of destruction — wide, unyielding, merciless.

 _“You,”_ snarls the Godmaker when he rounds on their god; turns his eyes with the fury of Titans where the blood god Valdemaras stands between him and his faithful because he could not be anywhere else, “if it comes to light you had _anything_ to do with this—if you so much as _whispered in an ear,_ or _sent a blighted missive…”_

When his hand raises a collective fear ripples through the three lovers; strong together, yes — but equally as vulnerable.

“I did not.”

“I will wring the truth from the marrow of your bones!”

“I did not!” Valdas screams. Gaius tortures him anyway.

Fire burns in his veins; a thousand deaths that didn’t quite take.

But it, too, passes. As the tempest of the Godmaker moves on from the spec of space they have become in the mere potential of his wrathful wake.

It had taken the lifetime of one influential man, several of lesser status, to bring them the wealth of their villa. Just as it takes the Godmaker one night to turn it all to rubble at their feet.

It is carnage for carnage’s sakes and yet they cannot find pleasure in it — when they look at the hollow, milk-white eyes of servants whose names they would never remember they know it could just as easily have been them in this burial mound of marble destruction.

The devoted of Valdemaras fall to their knees. Raise him up as they have done everything else: together.

And when the Golden Son raises his head he sees, through the cloud of dust and the ruins of their Roman lives, the Godmaker’s Queen does not look as sympathetic for her King’s loss as she should.

_Why would she?_

They are devoted to him utterly and completely. Yet that does not stop them from exchanging glances over the sweat on their god’s brow that they kiss with lips that taste of their tears.

“Did you do this?” they ask. Valdas did not. 

“But I wish I had.”

In the nights that follow there are many times Cynbel feels confession on the tip of his tongue. That he looks upon them and knows in some far-gone and hidden part of him that events may not have unfolded the way they did had he not brought Nona to the etherie; had they not heard her prophecy of The End and somehow were the undoing of it.

But no matter the distance they put between themselves and Rome the darkness of the Godmaker lingers over them — a shroud. To tell them, he believes, would be to cast aside the curtain and burn them all alive.

Perhaps he is wrong. Perhaps this was simply the way things were meant to be.

Perhaps not.

_I have proven you wrong, sweet seer. And I will again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And with that their time in Rome is come to an end. What did we think of Nona and the _etherie?_ I wasn’t too vague, was I? Like, we’re fully aware they were fae and Nona is a Bloodkeeper, right? Comments and critique would be fabulous. Thank you for reading! Next week I'll see you in the catacombs of Paris, 1582...


	4. II.i. The Prestige Waltz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #### Part II.
> 
> — Paris, 1582. Vampires across Europe gather beneath the bones of Paris for merriment, reverence, and to honor the lives lost in a holy war. But some see this not as meace, but as an opportunity to decimate the enemy ranks no matter the price. And, as Serafine Dupont comes to learn, other's lives are a sacrifice the Trinity is willing to make.
> 
> * * *
> 
> Beneath the streets of Paris the dead dwell restless. They take up masks and dance through the night. They celebrate freedom and life. And do so, unknowingly, for the last time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **chapter content warnings:** language, mentions of torture

_Paris, 1582_

She’s a breathtaking thing on his arm. Of course in this the age of beautiful things she still glows radiant; the star that outshines the moon.

As she always has. As she always will.

Long fingers wind through Cynbel’s golden locks absent and curious. She leaves it up to him to solve the labyrinth of the dead and instead finds herself contented in gazing upon him.

“You haven’t worn your hair this long since Venice.”

“Kind of you to notice.”

“I like it.”

“I should hope so. You spend countless hours in my company, darling mine. If you found me repulsive I can’t imagine what I would do with myself.”

Not a heartbeat passes and Isseya’s grip grows violent; feral. Nails digging into his scalp and a sudden tickling warmth on the back of his neck where blood drips down and threatens to stain his collar.

“Really, Iss’,” his sigh is long-suffering, yet he does not decline her apology of handkerchief dabbing away the mess, _“do_ try and keep civil tonight. You know how important the evening is to me.”

Yet he knows her too well not to feel the falter in her footsteps. The way her mockery of breathing stills and leaves them as permanent and dust-covered as the rest of the catacombs through which they wander with purpose.

“Indeed.”

He would ask if she was having second thoughts about the whole affair but what would that change? Nothing.

What’s done is done. And by the end of the night he will reap what has been sown with a madman’s delight.

Up ahead the darkness gives way to shadows dancing in ritual abreast of the walls of stone and bone. Before they get too close Cynbel stops them; pulls his darling girl against him — allows himself to be pinned against the tunnel and knows her natural desires of dominance will placate her.

Even now.

And she falls into the role as easily as he gives it. Pulling his arms up, up against the linen of his sleeves catching on the stone, to hold him in place. She inhales harsh against the confines of her corset and he, too, feels suddenly tight in the chest.

“You know what this reminds me of?” she practically sings into his neck — has him so _fucking_ glad he decided to forgo that awful stiff collar and luckily she doesn’t mind that he can’t possibly form words right then.

“London,” Isseya answers her own question in bites across his throat, “and the rack Our Beloved had brought from the Tower… how you _stretched_ and _begged_ for it to end.”

Glad though he is that the attempt at distracting her with delightful things has worked Cynbel can’t help but wonder what price he’s about to pay for it. Not that he isn’t stiff in his hose — but they _do_ have to make an appearance at some point in the night.

And Valdas will start to get worried if they do not show their faces soon.

She pulls back with eyes dark and greedy. Not too far, though, when he snaps blunted teeth forward to claim her lower lip for his own. Watching, transfixed, the way it comes back to her shining wet under the distant candlelight.

“Because I wasn’t tall enough already?”

“Are you complaining?”

“Not in the slightest.”

Cynbel snakes an arm around his lover’s waist and, all teasing aside, claims her in a familiar kiss. Familiar in that they have explored one another so intimately and so often that their bodies are one in the same; that the fabric and flesh between them no more than a false reality.

They part; trade lips for foreheads, and breathe in the silence together. As one.

“Should this night be our last night…”

He stops her there. A finger to her lips that curls to lift her chin. She is a proud creature, his darling Isseya; her head simply demands to be held high.

“Stop. You think me so foolish—nay—so _weak?_ This is merely another night, one of many passed and many to come.”

“You cannot control everything.”

“Watch me.”

He has every confidence that they will survive the trials soon to come. They have weathered every storm, every war, every plague. This, too, they will overcome.

The masques they take from their hips to fasten are as rich as they are detailed. Perfectly carved to their features and even now he gazes upon her with a reverence. Such beauty, and to be seen beautiful by it, was worth living for.

She takes his offered hand and with it some of the fire in his eyes. No words between them, they move as one to round the last steps before the tunnel opens outward and upward into splendor.

The vaulted ceilings are a surprise; as far down beneath the earth as they are. A promise of life and freedom that the world above could never truly give them not even in the nighttime. Chandeliers hang high overhead with candles deep in their flames.

Across the ballroom — they are not the last to arrive. Similarly decorated vampires coming alone and with companions at two doorways just as open and inviting. From all corners of Paris they flock here tonight.

He looks and finds Isseya surveying him warily. _So much for distraction._

“A bit _cramped_ in here, wouldn’t you say?” _There are more attendees than you assumed._

“We’re under the greatest city in the world my love. I’m sure we’ll find the room.” _Then we improvise. Nothing has changed._

Nothing has. If anything their chances of living through the things to come have only grown higher.

Even in the crowd their hearts yearn for who they know stands within. Can feel themselves drawn to him, pulled along by a force more powerful than their understanding.

Yet in crossing the length of the room they are seen; more than that they are _witnessed._ The status their masques signify earns them collective gasps and bows alike; lesser hoping to placate what they only understand to be _more than they are._ More than they ever will be; for some tonight.

_There are always casualties in war._

Together Cynbel and Isseya come across the only masque that could earn their respect; the only thing older than they. Would bow together anyway, would dirty the hems and knees of their finery if that was what he asked of them. Because that is the _proper_ way to treat a god.

That is the proper way to treat _their_ god.

Valdas looks them over with warmth that quickly ignites hot, passionate. He has always appreciated the beauty of his beloveds but this night there is a sense of urgency and finality with every action in which they partake. The greater the risk the greater the reward.

Hungry is their god — who cannot wait even for Cynbel to come up from his bow of respect before grabbing onto the man’s doublet to pull their mouths together. A kiss met with equal fervor and delight, and no less devoted when shared to their darling.

Those old enough enough to remember the days before reservation and propriety, few and far between though they are, say nothing. Those left avert their gaze and know better than to challenge masques so revealing.

“I was starting to worry you’d lost your way.” Valdas glances between his lovers; their mischief not lost on him.

“We simply took a scenic path.”

“And did it suit you?”

“As only death could.”

When they turn out to observe the party so far it is as they do everything — together as one. His gods touch finds its way into his hair and Cynbel pays no thought to it. It is sacrament, after all.

“Were the rumors true?” asks Isseya in a low breath. It earns the pair of them a heavy sigh.

“Indeed.”

“Then we should away.”

Cynbel stifles a derisive snort. “Absolutely not.”

“What you have set in motion is all the more reason.” When she speaks it is earnest and out of love. They know this. But equally she knows they are warriors first. That they crave blood for sport as well as feast.

“While the idea of the Godmaker’s head on one of their silver blades is enough to send me into a passionate heat —”

_“Cynbel.”_

“We’re among alike company, Valdas.”

“You don’t know that for certain.”

“Really,” the taller man scans the crowd with a knowing eye, “I do.”

A hush falls over the crowded ballroom — dashes away Isseya’s idle fancies of fleeing before they are found. None other than the man himself could garner such a reaction.

Between them the Made-God grows tense. His lovers share arms around him on instinct — natural and without hesitation.

They enter in deadly beauty, arms lain together with an air of presentation. _See us,_ it says, _and know your place under our heel._ The response it draws is immediate. None dare allow themselves to be in the way of the King and Queen of Vampires.

And they bask in the attention like gluttons. The Bloodqueen smiles much in the same way as when they last had met — the sultry curve of lips that keeps the viewer in a trance only so that they cannot gaze up to see how it does not reach her eyes. And him — he smiles because he means it. Because he need not ask for respect from the masses, not anymore.

They stop in the middle of the floor and are given a wide berth. Gaius tightens his grip on the handle of his masque before he lets it fall from his face; the only one who could dare to pull off such an outrageous act in present company.

“Friends, subjects, loyalists;” he addresses the gathering with pride already swollen in his chest, “your welcome to this our finest achievement has been a gracious one. To see you all gathered here, to see so many of our kind in one place and pridefully so, is a gift the value of I could never have imagined.”

_“Always the wordsmith, Gaius_ mon chér.”

She emerges from the adoring crowd a vision in red. Velvet gown swept up in dainty hand as she comes up on Cynbel’s open side without so much as a glance. The filigree of her masque dazzles in the firelight; intimate gold that frames the upper half of her face to both conceal and reveal.

A bold choice none but the hostess of the evening could aspire to.

She greets Kamilah as an old friend; takes their hands together and presses delicate Parisian kisses on either cheek. Knows the eyes of nearly every vampire in Europe are upon her as she gives a flourishing curtsy with the kiss she bestows on Gaius’ ring.

“I cannot tell you how pleased I am you could attend us tonight,” continues she, “though I will admit I was near to giving up — what with my last five invitations all met with refusal.”

Something flashes in Kamilah’s eye. Has her hand back on that of her King quickly — in restraint.

“Not refusal, Serafine. We were merely indisposed.”

And she understands. “You shall have to regale me the tales.”

“Shall we now?” asks Gaius with a raised brow. It earns him a coy smirk from the Lady Serafine.

“I insist. But now is the time for revelry! _Continuer, mes amis!”_ On her signal the musicians resume their tune, tentative conversation growing strong once again.

To hide would be a fool’s notion. And the Trinity have been called many things, but _fools_ not a word among them.

Demons and the Devil himself. Bloodthirsty pagans. Hellish temptations.

But never fools. The world knows better than that.

The Godmaker and his firstborn share a long look even as heads in their decorated masques and boisterous dress weave between them. Kamilah’s stare goes hard at the sight of him and for that Cynbel cannot help but feel accomplished in some way.

And because he’s in such a delightfully cheery mood — _because he knows_ — he grins and dares a cheeky wink.

_Dares_ only in that the sudden sting of Isseya’s claws on his upper arm is so very _very_ worth it.

They know what must be done, now. At their god’s back the lovers stand as they approach.

“Valdemaras,” Gaius says as he offers his ring in the same way. And without hesitation— _he knows better by now, they all do; this tenuous arrangement of theirs_ —Valdas bestows his kiss.

“Augustine.”

Nothing could ruin the Golden Son’s jubilance. Nothing.

“Little lotus,” he croons to Kamilah even as her mouth turns downward, “you’re looking in good health.”

Whatever she wants to say, she doesn’t. Bites her tongue enough for the brightest flash of copper to make the tip of his nose twitch.

Their darling goes still as stone when the Godmaker bows to her; nothing reverent but more of a courtly finesse. But as he waits she comes to realize it is her he waits upon; offers up the back of her hand clutching her fan in pale knuckles for him to kiss.

_See, we can be civil. Now you must be, too._

Palpable tension such as theirs isn’t lost on the other guests, though, especially on one so close as their hostess. Who takes everyone by surprise when she dares speak of it.

“Ah, _c'est intéressant,”_ as a loose curl falls in the eyeline of her masque, “the stories those looks could tell. Friends of yours, Kamilah _chérie?”_

She hesitates, as if deciding whether or not to answer.

“I believe you know of them by reputation,” — _obviously, as Isseya made quite sure of that upon their arrival earlier that season_ — “what is that silly name of yours again, Cynbel?”

Lucky his masque hides the curl of his upper lip.

“If we’re to speak of _silly_ things —”

“I present my lovers; Cynbel and Isseya,” Valdas interrupts, probably best for them all, and takes both of their hands in offering to the Lady, “you may call me Valdas.”

A flash of recognition in the Frenchwoman’s calculating gaze.

“Ah… _Les Trois Amants.”_

Isseya’s chin raises with pride. “And you can be no other than tonight’s hostess, no? _Mademoiselle_ Dupont.”

“Please, call me Serafine.”

“Such informality…”

“It breeds a certain… intimacy, _non?”_

Her lovers need not worry of her — but what they _know_ and what they _do_ are different things. None in their little circle miss the way Valdas’ hand tightens over hers and the angle of Cynbel’s body as if to cover her from such _intimate_ eyes. Instinct for them both; to claim and be claimed by one another for all to see.

Thankfully the pleasantries are made to end there. The soft tunes of conversation dying on instrumental lips as the concert prepares to begin playing for the first dance of the midnight hour.

_“Mademoiselle,_ may I have he honor of your _prestige?”_

Even Gaius has a hard time concealing his surprise when Serafine’s hand comes out in offering to Isseya. Objectively they all understand — know the worth of a millennia by virtue of living it. But some things just simply _aren’t fucking done._

Isseya knows this and still accepts. Takes their hands with a sparkle of mischief in her eye before they away to take up positions within the circle gathering on the dance floor.

Paranoia only begins to breed when Cynbel watches the Godmaker’s hand fall on the middle of Valdas’ lower back. “My _prestige_ is yours, Valdemaras.” Not that he is given the choice — is already being led to follow.

Which leaves…

“No.”

Cynbel’s eyebrows barely raise in surprise. Not that he’s entirely inclined to do so with her, either, but they seem to have little say in the matter.

“You would rather take the first dance with someone so mundane?” He sweeps a lazy gesture across the floor. “You know none save our companions are even close enough in age.”

Kamilah’s eyes narrow; she scans the floor for those left unpartnered as though someone will spring miraculous from the stone with enough years under their belt to not serve as a grave insult to her.

He doesn’t have to look. No one else will do.

“I doubt one dance will be the end of you, little lotus.” Offering his hand in defeat for them both.

“You give yourself too much credit.”

“Luckily ‘tis not my credit you need, but my _prestige.”_

They slide in together, hand in hand, moments before the waltz begins. No effort made on behalf of either to keep the disdain from bleeding through their garb to stain the floor at their feet.

This is simply the way things are done in polite society. They know this. Both of them helped shape it in their own way. They’ve certainly had the time to.

With their betters paired off it was simply the only way to save face. For either of them to dance with one of the lesser attendees would have been tantamount to suicide of status. No other vampire in attendance could have been over a millennium—not even the Lady Serafine. But being a hostess had its perks, and Cynbel could attest… his darling Isseya was so very worth it.

One of the violinists drags the first note out; a true delight to perform for an audience with hearing unsurpassed.

Cynbel lays his hand on the cusp of her waist. Kamilah squeezes his hand hard enough to grind bone. _Good, he would expect nothing less than resistance._

Humans held court to catch a glimpse of their betters. For their kind it was this — _La Valse de Prestige,_ the Prestige Waltz. Faces trained on their partners all around but eyes unable to help themselves in how they wander.

There is no slow build. There is only the abrupt beginning, and the flurry of the dance.

Here lay the ability—nay the obligation—to pass judgment on one another. On who danced with whom; on what masque partnered with another. For many it was a matter of life and death. For the likes of the Trinity, of the Godmaker and his Queen it was a chance to see a new breed of blooded potential. For the rest; a fruitless attempt to climb the staircase.

Only it wasn’t so much a staircase as a sheer cliff dropping off into an abyss.

Even in the confines of her dress Kamilah’s movements are limber and fluid. He hardly has to guide her at all.

“You look well.”

“If you are attempting to make me falter —”

“Which would look terrible on behalf of us both. Can I not give a simple compliment?”

“No, you cannot.”

Hands joined they follow the motions; fling themselves outward with faces turned away. Cynbel sees Isseya in almost direct opposite. Their eyes meet and as one they see their beloved focused on his own movements on the far curve of the room.

And they pity him. Know firsthand how beautifully he can dance… but in the hands of the Godmaker he is made mortal again — if only for a short while.

His exact argument against coming tonight, and why they had never ventured to the crypts with their beautiful promises of community before.

If they were lucky, perhaps the events of the night would change that.

What was the phrase, ah yes. _To kill two birds with one stone._

“For a man so craven to violence, you feign deep thought quite well.”

Blue eyes unfix themselves from a rapidly-changing distance to lay on the Bloodqueen. “Was that you asking what my mind wanders to?”

“Of course not.”

“Then why say anything at all?”

Of course he knows why; the din of hushed conversation is all around them. Attuned ears catch the familiar bell of Isseya’s laughter. A couple at his back carry on a hissed debate over Cynbel and Kamilah’s statuses — why their masques are so revealing and embellished.

They are a gaping void of silence in comparison. But he’d rather she say it.

She doesn’t give him the satisfaction.

“Very well,” clicking his tongue—he dares to be civil with the woman who nearly left him to join the ashes that littered Pompeii, “when did you and the Godmaker set sights on Paris?”

“France has been home to our court for several decades now.”

_Our court._ Two words that drag his sights along the room. Surely not _this_ court, not with the surprise at his attendance as there had been. “And before that?”

“What does it matter to you?”

“I’m writing a memoir.”

“Of course you are. Always such a learned thing you were, preferring the company of _books_ over _bloodshed.”_

Rouged lips tick in her effort not to smirk. Personally he finds her wit humorless and dry.

“If you must know… we only recently came up from the Mediterranean. There was rumor out of Venice that sent us into hiding; a hunter who had felled the great Bloodqueen.”

She is strong but still so young. What a difference two thousand years makes; in the eyes and in the mind, in the control of the body. But there is still a mystery that can render even the oldest of their line a prisoner to their impulses.

He knows it well. 

He lets their eyes meet; holds her captive with the light stroke of his thumb along the outside of her index finger. A direct touch; a private one. But enough to release the sudden grasp of iron at his words.

There is a part of Cynbel that relishes in her silent suffering. Because even the sight of her reminds him of Rome, of his Lord taking a knee to keep his lovers alive.

And then there is a part that feels her pain as his own. Who remembers the howl of his own bleeding lungs at the sight of the sword that nearly came down on Isseya’s neck. _Too soon, too soon._

“I’m sorry for your loss,” is all he says. And he hopes that, even if for the rest of their dance, she believes him.

The music ends as abrupt as it began. Almost as if the musicians were taken in the middle of the piece — but they all know better. The Prestige Waltz is a symbol as much as it is a dance. And are they not all to be ended with a swift act of a cruel fate?

Around them bows and curtsies of thanks. The orchestra starts up a far more leisurely tune. The formalities are done.

Cynbel gently pries himself from the little lotus’ grasp. Kisses the back of her hand and risks _everything_ to whisper against her skin.

“I would not be displeased if you survived tonight.”

Kamilah tugs her hand back and the inevitable question that he will not answer is poised on her lips — but the return of his lovers is reason enough for Cynbel to take a more permanent leave of her.

“I like her.”

He snaps a look to Isseya, very nearly alarmed, before the realization that she stares at Serafine with delight edging on desire.

“She certainly knows how to throw a party.”

They both linger in a half-silence; so familiar now that a voice should follow but it does not. And has them turning, in sync, to Valdas’ silence with curiosity.

They comfort him as only they can; her touch on a cheek, his hand at a waist. Giving him only the praise and adoration their Made-God deserves even when he looks as he does now — when he looks as though he does not.

Such times are when he needs it most.

When Valdas finally speaks it is with crimson eyes. Once following the Godmaker’s eyes move across the floor now given just as intensely to Cynbel much to his surprise.

“Your amusement for tonight must be postponed.”

Surely he speaks madness. “Not even your divinity could do such, darling.”

“Do whatever you must — but none shall come upon us tonight.”

So foreign is how Valdas pulls from his lovers’ touches that they are left, for a moment, unmoored.

“It cannot be done.” Cynbel repeats in fewer words. Harder, clipped.

“It must.”

“It. _cannot.”_

The hand Valdas runs over his own face trembles with the weight of him. “Then we are all doomed.”

He tries all he can; reaches out but finds his touch rejected — outright _rejected._ Tries to speak but the words simply never ring right in his ears. Companionship for as long as they have had comes with its share of arguments but _this…_

Something so small, so inconsequential. Yet the disappointment brimming from his Love and Light is… rattling to say the least.

Yet the answer is as plain as day.

“Does he know?”

Here in their secrecy they dare not chance a look. Cynbel has already risked enough saying what he has to his consort.

It’s a relief to them all when Valdas shakes his head. “Not quite. _But_ that means so little. And with him here… they could never hope to win anyway.”

“It isn’t my intent to let them win. And should he fall prey to their righteous hands… well all the better.”

Not for the first time Valdas silences him with a kiss. Bruising and harsh; holding his jaw in place because he is commanded to accept such a gift. As if he could do anything less.

“Cynbel, my Golden Son…” They pull from one another with obvious reluctance. Foreheads resting as their blind hands search and find sanctuary in that of their third.

He isn’t prepared to hear the crack in his love’s voice. It wounds him far worse than a stake ever could.

“Please. Save your appetite for another night.”

“What is done cannot be undone.”

Isseya steps between them. Steals a kiss in offering from them both. The temple of her always demanding more, more, more that they give her without hesitation.

“You cannot fault him for that.” Because she knows her strengths Isseya punctuates her words with a forlorn twinkle of the eye. Squeezes Cynbel’s hand behind her and he knows — knows even gods are made pliable under such a gaze.

The music picks back up before Valdas can speak. All around them the cacophony of merriment and delight and they cannot let their worries cut through such a veil lest they be discovered… something even their Maker knows.

“On your head be it.”

His dismissal is clear. And something Cynbel will not take lightly. He takes that benevolent hand up to his lips for a kiss. “Trust that I will keep you safe, my Light, my Love. As I always have.” He dares to look upwards and is met with tragedy in dark eyes. “As I always will.”

A shock of red pulls from the dancing crowd towards them and the Trinity pull from one another — close but not uneasily so.

When the Lady Serafine takes them in her mirth wavers for the briefest moment. Something that cannot be helped — something about them has always roused suspicion even in the merriest of souls.

They are close; closer than can be defined with words in any language, closer than anyone can understand. That kind of devotion creates a wall between them and the world.

It is meant to.

“I had hope to pull you into the revelry… but perhaps it would be out of turn of me.” Even with half of her face hidden her hesitance is transparent.

Valdas steps forward — one breath quicker than his lovers — and offers their hostess his arm.

“We would be the ones out of turn to decline the lady her dance.” He muses; smiles down as she takes his upper arm softly, tugs him towards the mingling array.

The look he throws back to his lovers is a reassuring one. 

_Enjoy the night while you can._

* * *

The intent is to take the hands of the next partner — something the rest of the circle does with ease.

Yet as Cynbel looks down… _down… down_ until he rests his eyes on his would-be partner he stops and finds himself unsure.

How is he to proceed when his partner is…

“Are you well, _monsieur?”_ Yet even when the child asks it is clear he has no intention of letting the taller vampire get away so easily. Grasps Cynbel’s hands with his own and the comparison in size is almost astounding enough to trip his feet. As it is — he’s now more conscious of every step than ever.

“Quite.” Not as smooth of a save as he would prefer, but better than none.

A familiar trilling laughter whirls his head to the sight of Isseya with an unfamiliar man. Her eyes, as ever, fixated on her golden lover. Much to her partner’s obvious chagrin.

The child whirls the pair of them wild and free and with all the abandon of youth.

“The pleasure is all mine!”

“Indeed.”

_Help me,_ his silent cry to Valdas; who has taken up with a slim woman obscured fully by her masque. His act of generosity for the night.

As predicted the moment his lover pulls himself from her grasp she is flocked by other, less _prestigious_ attendees eager to bask in the attention given by someone so old.

He approaches them calmly — calmer than Cynbel would like but appearance is everything even at the eleventh hour — and easily slides his lover from the young man’s embrace.

“Forgive me, Marcel,” he muses to the child, “but I find myself wilting without my beloved’s touch.”

Marcel, with an air of familiarity Cynbel doesn’t quite understand, coos at the pair of them before skipping off to a different part of the room. His boisterous demeanor seems equally repulsive to his chosen victim; a surly man with a surlier masque in armor that doesn’t quite shine like it should.

He keeps note of that. The only one adequately prepared for what is to come.

“I know that look.”

A crooked finger under his chin draws Cynbel’s attention away and to the center of his world. To the hesitance he sees still but not without its own resignation. That his god humors him still is a blessing without compare.

“What look?” He’s always feigned innocence terribly.

He interrupts the purse of Valdas’ lips with a kiss. Tangles his fingers in dark hair like staining himself with shadow and cares little for anyone who might be watching. Their kind may try to keep up with the social niceties of humanity but they will never be ruled by it.

“You are not the only soldier here, my Golden One.”

“Good, then they may stand a fighting chance.”

“And will you rally them?”

“Hardly. This is between Baltasar and myself; another battle in our seemingly endless war.”

He continues even when a hand claps over his mouth. Even when his god’s eyes bleed red and chance hasty looks to assure they are unheard.

To utter such a name in present company may very well doom them all.

“Relax, my divine love — I would not speak were I worried of discovery.”

“I doubt that.”

“You doubt _me?”_

“Only in that I know your desire for bloodshed is enough to fill the Seine to brimming.”

The smile such a compliment earns is, obviously, not meant for so. Yet even at the pout of Valdas’ bottom lip Cynbel cannot help but feel proud to be known as such.

He gathers his Maker close with one arm; protects him from the world as he always has. As he always will. “Everything I do, I do for you and Isseya.” Peppering kisses across his tanned throat just shy of the stiff collar. “Even now it may seem petty or trifling, but when we are free of their wretched hounds at our heels you will understand.”

It takes longer than he’s used to but eventually the inevitable comes — eventually Valdas does yield to each touch. Though not without a sigh of his own; his own way of saying he does not approve, but he will not stand in the way.

It is a middle ground to which they have grown familiar.

He is always forgiven.

It is a break in the heavy clouds which have hung over the vampires of Paris for too long. A brief flicker of moonlight which they bathe in, frolic through not unlike the pagans of old. There are even a few times in which — only to be certain there is no suspicion to be found — Cynbel looks to see true enjoyment on the Godmaker’s carved features.

A sight that makes him ill.

Following a dance that certainly _could_ have been performed with the entirety of her ensemble but was much better enjoyed in nothing but her underclothes, Isseya drapes herself over the back of the chair both her lovers occupy. Not a space to fit two grown men but like everything they make it work.

She leans forward expectantly and devoted as they are the men comply; showering her throat with kisses and bites worthy of the envy the less _prestigious_ among their kind have thrown their way all evening.

“Do you think they might begin to grow suspicious?” she asks idle; winding her clutches at the backs of their heads as possessive as they are thoughtless. An act of instinct.

Cynbel flicks the tip of his tongue over the shell of her ear. “Why would they?”

“We’ve a reputation for abandoning these affairs for our own.”

“They should be honored by our continued presence.”

“And yet whispers abound.”

He pulls back to watch his lovers where their temples touch. To bask in the glow they create together. Almost seems a shame to ruin an evening of their radiance but… no.

That’s just a little seed of doubt. Something to carve out of him like fleshrot.

“That my heart —” thumb brushing over Isseya’s lips, “— and my soul —” other hand cupping the strong angle of Valdas’ jaw, “— continue to doubt me so is insult enough. Lest they forget that I do this for them and the pleasure I take from it is not solely selfish in nature.”

Walking away from them is a difficult thing; always has been, always will be. But difficult things are merely difficult — not impossible. And one more word from them against him may just be the spark that ignites his smothered temper.

He hears them call out but resists the impulse to turn back. Leaves the merriment through one of the few doorways and casts off his masque as he does. _Prestige,_ masques; he could care less for the things that can be bought and bribed into.

Let them meet him across a battlefield with naught but their hands as fists and see, then, that he will always win. Such is the way of the soldier, of the hunter. Of the primordial creatures they are yet seem to have forgotten.

He throws a fist in a fit of rage. Watches it collide with the wall of bone with a sickeningly delighted _crunch_ that breaks the face of a skull off into little pieces. So fragile, so withering.

So fucking satisfying to see.

_“At what point do they cease to become faces?”_

Without her masque she is of the same beauty, though perhaps with more emotion about her now no longer hidden.

Serafine’s fingertips trail along the rows of foreheads; some still with places for the eyes and jawbones and some not unlike the poor victim of Cynbel’s rage.

Dirt and bone dust gathers on the heavy fabric at the train of her dress. She doesn’t seem to mind.

He holds her gaze as he reaches out to an almost perfectly preserved skull. Caresses the voided eyes with his fingertips and hooks his thumb through a gap in the teeth. All it takes is the slightest twitch of muscle — no longer preserved almost or not.

Serafine flinches; a telling thing he does not miss.

“I would assume when I do that.”

“I mean the faces behind the bone. To whom these lonely heads once belonged.”

He regards her with a glint in his eye. “I heard tell of the far-reaching influence of the _Mademoiselle Dupont_ but I had no idea she knew so many.”

The coy smile that tugs at her lips is forced. An easy thing — the hallmark of a woman used to the machinations of courtly intrigue. She could learn a thing or two from his darling girl; she does so without tell.

But the silence between them echoes. Hard and bright. It makes him sigh.

“If one sees a sea of bones and plucks them by identity, they will do so regardless of whether they are alive or dead.”

A bold thing to admit. There is power in truth but when the truth is soaked in the blood of ages…

“I am sorry if this is not the answer you were looking for.”

_“Non,_ no… I would rather the reality than a beautiful lie. We carry such lies enough, do we not?” Cynbel raises an eyebrow; there is no vanity in the way she tucks a lock of curls behind her ear. “You and I would be no different than these bones, were our bodies to show the years. Yet we remain beautiful well into eternity.”

“Some more than others.”

“Indeed.”

But that isn’t the reason the hostess abandoned her own affair. Now is it?

When she looks from one dead thing to another Serafine is met with expectant eyes. She has the decency to feign a flush.

“Forgive me—but what sort of hostess would I be were I not to entertain all of my guests?”

“You have entertained us enough.”

_“‘Us?’”_

Cynbel stills his exploratory hand. “My lovers and I.” 

_Us — we — always a unity. Together even when they are apart._

The woman nods. “Ah, _oui._ I count myself among the lucky few to have been graced with their _prestige_ this night. But not yet from you. It leaves a woman to wonder why.”

“I doubt it has escaped your keen notice, _Mademoiselle Dupont,_ that my social skills are lackluster in comparison to my better selves.”

“And you would not stray from such notions even for the sake of propriety?”

It makes him snort a laugh — a noise that takes his companion by surprise. Brings an easily-detectable pity to his eyes.

“Now it is I who must be forgiven.”

“For what, _monsieur?”_

“For in any way giving you the impression that I am _proper.”_

Laughable, really. A joke he will think of fondly for years to come when all this is done.

And should she have any doubts in his words he would have those cast aside, too. Closing the gap between them in a single stride. Escape through such narrow corridors more than a fleeting whimsy as he leans against the burial wall to take her in.

Cynbel would be lying if he said the minute trembling of her under the touch of his thumb was not exciting. 

There is a different fear in their kind than that of humans. Humans are always afraid. But vampires… no no. Vampires fear with reason, cause; knowledge. They fear things that deserve to be feared. Things that have earned it.

And he has earned it so.

“A room full of admirers, the progenitor of our lineage, the _prestige_ of the Bloodqueen—of _Les Trois Amants,_ or two of three anyway, tucked beneath your skirts…”

With thumb and forefinger Cynbel raises her chin; easily tilted upwards to his unabashed amusement, “I find it hard to believe a hostess with such pretty achievements to crown herself with would willingly follow a single solemn soul because of something as silly as _duty.”_

The change under his hand is equally a delight. How Serafine steels herself; hardened eyes and a clenched jaw and _command_ dripping from painted lips.

“Believe me, or do not. That is —”

“I do not believe you, no. I believe someone sent you out here to me. A little lotus, perhaps?”

_Regret,_ like a shooting star in the endless sky. There one moment and gone in a flash; burned behind the eyelids but never to be seen again.

_He should not have told her._

Inconsequential.

“You would do well to _back. away.”_

The chance to answer—or act—never comes. Not when the ground rumbles over their heads and noises foreign to all but the valiant begin to trail in on the same chord as the silenced orchestra. Then the thundering _boom_ of a cannon, of doors blown from their hinges and the singing opera of swords torn from their sheaths. 

_“Finally…”_ Cynbel exhales like ecstasy; picturesque like the trembling waif on her wedding night.

The armies of the faithful have arrived.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If the _waltz_ itself still remains a mystery to you worry not! Vampires are sticklers for tradition and European vampires especially. _The Prestige Waltz_ remains a tradition carried through the centuries... perhaps to a certain Count’s castle? Keep an eye out! Comments and critique would be fabulous. Thank you for reading!


	5. II.ii. Behold, the Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The armies of the faithful purge the catacombs with fire. Serafine uses that light to discover the darkness hidden at the heart of their community.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **chapter content warnings:** language, violence, blood, death, mild gore, burning, injury

This the chaotic dance with which he is all too familiar. This the slaughter of his kind — his kind, but not his people. They will never be his people. This the bloodshed that has consumed him, fueled him, ignited the flames of war at his heels ever since the Crusades.

All around him motions of life, motions of death; that he cannot even stand the briefest moment to appreciate the beauty of it is beautiful in itself.

Behind him; rusted metal coiling tight, creaking wood struggling to hold together, the sheen of sharpened blades scraping against one another as the bolt is drawn—loaded— _fired._

Cynbel waits until the last possible second to catch the bolt before it sinks home in his heart. He would kiss it for luck had he the inkling — but he doesn’t need luck.

Metal-tipped crossbow bolts; fashioned tough and as tempestuous as to whom they belong. Designed to puncture even the finest of armors — meant for the enemy.

Because he wants to savor in the first of his victories for the night Cynbel makes sure to rip off the breastplate first. Casts it aside no better than maiden’s veils in what good it does the knight; in how effective it is in stopping his adversary from spearing him through with his own weapon.

The helmet goes next. Young eyes wide in panic and young lips stained with blood and spittle yet he feels nothing for this child on the cusp of manhood. Why would he? The butcher does not feel for his supper.

Cynbel smears his tongue flat and wet across the young man’s chin. Tastes the salt and fear in his blood brimming near to a boil and it makes him hard.

Though most of it is wasted — spills on flagstones beside the slick shine of oil. The color, though, is a welcome accent on his damned finery.

Victory runs red along his teeth and he pulls his hand free from the bled meat. Lets him collapse to the floor to join his blood. Unlikely that he’ll live unless the Knights have discovered a miraculous way to shove ones organs back inside their bellies.

But they are only as fun as they are alive. So he moves on to the next. The crossbow yields, splinters apart underfoot.

A high-pitched cry sounds to his right — Cynbel turns just in time to see the youngling from earlier, Marcel, launch himself with bared fangs and eyes that match the blood staining his coat at another Knight.

The Knight braces for a light impact, perhaps even to catch him mid-flight. But what collides is much heavier than they anticipated and the pair go flying across the ballroom.

The chaos is stifling. The smoke clinging to the Gothic ceilings is, too. A sign of fires raging somewhere in the distance and, knowing the Holy Knights, growing closer. Meant not to choke them but to burn them alive; to trap them in with the rest of the dead here.

_Beautiful, rapturous carnage._

And it means nothing without them at his side.

Cynbel doesn’t have to call for them — his heart leads him bound and chained to where it belongs. To his lovers; to the reason all this has come to pass.

To Isseya — who rips a head clean from its neck helmet and all. Who stands in perfection among a growing pile of bodies of the dead and dying without a stain on her.

To Valdas — the thrill of the hunt ignited like the burning catacombs despite all of his past protests. Whose nails and frilled sleeves drip ichor where two hearts beat their last in his unyielding clutches.

The distance between them all ceases to exist when the Trinity look up — when they find one another in the fray. Fascinating; how the look of a lover can bend the very laws of reality like that.

As glorious as they look naked, he’s starting to prefer them drenched in the blood of their enemies. _As if he didn’t already._

But any hope of union is quickly dashed at the echo of battle cries on hollow bones. As many Knights as have already been dealt with there are more on the way. _More than he accounted for_ — but hindsight meant nothing to the dead.

Masques scatter the floor, the ashes of their owners kicked up in the frenzy. Cling to boot heels and skirt hems and catch on their tongues. The last wish of the fallen to be carried with the victors into battle.

No rest for the wicked — a new wave of clanging iron erupts and Knights pour in from all sides. Faceless foot soldiers frantic for fame. For the glory that comes with their oh-so-noble purpose of ridding the world of vampire kind one by one.

The Holy Sacred Knights of the Rising Dawn have come ready for war.

And war they shall receive.

Isseya dances aside, the breeze of a blade missing her just so. And hellion that she is the vampiress grabs the sword by the opposite end and wrenches it from its owner’s grasp — returns it to them generously and all the way to the hilt.

She kicks the fleshy sheath astray, shouts _“Cynbel!”_ with barely restrained delight, and tosses him the weapon. Caught with the ease of a master of both the blade and her love given with it.

He decapitates the nearest Knight with his back turned.

It is a dance the guests know as well as—if not better than—the Prestige Waltz. One that consumed many of their mortal lives — and their mortality with it. And one that follows them now in death. With the collective experience and knowledge of the battlefield in this room alone how could the Knights even imagine victory?

_“Seal the West! Let none flee!”_

There was fleeing? Who would be foolish enough to flee from such decadent bloodshed? 

Only when the words finally ring in his ears as more than another wail of death does Cynbel turn and see a huddle of vampires being led to safety by none other than Serafine herself.

Though blood has saturated the oil spilled it still ignites when a Knight tosses their torch to the ground. A towering blaze alighted that races in winding tendrils from one end of the hall to the other and claims two of the doorways.

He can feel the heat licking at his skin even from a distance. Watches the cries of shock, anguish; agony when those unfortunate souls trapped in the midst of escape are consumed in the threshold. The rest forced back.

_Well that’s a new development._

By the time they realize the Knights plan to corral them inside the ballroom like a tomb it’s too late. It’s already happening.

Serafine directs those left to staunch the flames as best they can. Capes and cloaks and skirts torn carelessly to smother what they can. But that leaves them open — vulnerable. Three felled by one Knight alone in a cloud of ash.

And with no time to savor the victory; not when the Godmaker tears the human in two with his bare hands.

“Monsters! All of you!”

The sight is stunning enough to still Cynbel, momentarily taken aback, before a _crack_ and the clatter of armor sends him staggering backwards to avoid being toppled by the dead Knight.

Valdas, glare now too close for comfort; something that makes him feel like a scolded child, joins him in standing over the fresh corpse.

“You seem to have underestimated your adversary, _darling.”_ Says his god through gritted teeth.

“What,” so cocky, so certain, “not having any fun?”

He knows the anger is not for those who have been lost but for the overwhelming number surrounding them. For two of their exits blocked by fire and their chances of escaping before the fight is done now all but dashed.

With a grunt Valdas pulls them together; the kiss as nourishing as it is reassuring. Tongues tangled, tasting the blood of their enemies in each other’s mouths until only pleasure is left.

“I forbid you from dying tonight. Forbid you from denying me the satisfaction of punishing you for your arrogance.”

_Oh the things that voice does to him._ “Yes, divine one.”

_“You choose_ now _to fuck, of all times?!”_

Both heads turn as Isseya spits a chunk of the enemy’s throat to her feet. Cynbel erupts in laughter, staggers when Valdas pushes him back and has to quickly gain balance before he trips over another body.

“Jealousy does not match your dress, beloved!”

“Nor desperation, yours!”

Even in the fray she is as sharp of tongue as she is of wit. In times like this it feels like the old days; where bloodshed and war are as common as regalia and waltzes.

Easier, then, to forget that they are not alone.

_“We must retreat!”_

_“One step back, Westbrook, and I will take your head myself.”_

_“My love…”_

_“I will not abandon our people!”_

A trio of their own; the Godmaker, his Bloodqueen, and the soldier. That they could even consider retreating in the middle of all this sours the blood on Cynbel’s tongue. But even he would be fool to deny this… this is more than he expected from the Knights.

Perhaps he may have miscalculated a bit.

_“Gaius,_ mon cher! _Everyone!_ Allez, viens!”

The sacrifices of the lessers have not been in vain. Flames staunched by cloak and foot, Serafine calls from the blackened doorway with soot in dark stains across her face and blood dripping from her red lips — the body fresh at her feet still twitching in vain.

A hand closes tight around his upper arm, makes Cynbel look back to see the stern face of his Maker resolute.

“If we run now, they win! This could all have been for nothing!”

“If we stay, it surely will be.”

But the decision is already made for him as Isseya speeds to their side and takes each of them in bloody hands. The look she gives him nothing less than frustrated desperation.

The memories it brings back haunt him still; nightmares like reliving the terrible past over and over again.

Ash grinds like glass against their foreheads come together; tastes harsh on her lips in the bruising intensity of her kiss. “You cannot control everything,” she echoes, far more important now than in the innocence of mere hours ago, “but you can control _this.”_

_This._ Their escape.

_“Rragh!”_ He whips the sword in hand with blind fury. Watches it lodge itself in the stone and sink deep.

They comfort him because they know his choice. They know him; his mind for strategy, his acute sense for war. And they know he would never risk their lives for the sake of his war.

They already have him spirited away from the center of the carnage by the time he realizes his feet are moving. 

A look back—only the bodies of the enemy remain before they, too, are consumed too bright in fire. Flames leaping from table to table, catching on long tapestries woven in recognition of a victory they assumed with naivete.

The ashes of their fallen mingle with burned wood. He watches until he can no longer; sees the dark shapes of those still left to pursue them begin to amass at the other end of the hall.

His victory — gone up in flames.

“We can lose them in the labyrinth!” cries Serafine from up ahead, where the voices of the desperate meet her; their shepherd.

They will have to. The rattling sound of armor-clad footsteps grows louder with every wasted moment. The acrid smell of burning oil curls his lips back.

Even in the flames Cynbel had nothing to fear. Not with his beloveds in his eye and at his side. But when the chaos becomes too much, when he feels their hands slip from his grasp, fear takes her opportunity and slips into the dual voids left behind.

_No. No no nonono—_

“Valdas! _Valdas! Isseya!”_

_“Cynbel?!”_

_“Cynbel!”_

The threat of breaking his neck — head whipping back and forth to see them hoarded down different passages — means nothing. Let it snap. Let him pass through this terrible loss unconscious; unaware.

_Bring them back to him. Bring them back!_

His height; a blessing and a curse — keeps them in his sights but he can do nothing through the throng of panicking survivors as they are each pushed in different directions. As they become just another movement in the mass of darkness.

Smoke burns at his eyes but he keeps them open for as long as he can. Knows the tears are not for his own pain but for the pain that comes when the cord that keeps them as one strains, frays, and threatens to snap.

_“—sieur! Monsieur!”_

High-pitched panic breaks through the thundering of his three hearts. Draws Cynbel down with a small pale hand to the face of a cherubim’s devil.

_“Monsieur!”_ The child Marcel cries again, this time it works to bring him from his own pit of despair.

_They are not dead yet._

“I cannot find him!” he wails, “I cannot find Banner!”

“Wh-Who?”

Tear-tracks break through the soot on his round cheeks and really, really he does not have the time for this. Yet as he looks around they are nearly alone — left behind in his panic to rip himself in two and carry each part of him to where his lovers now wander.

_They will endure. They have always endured._

And should his pride, his hubris be the reason they are taken from him in this life then he would not hesitate to seek them swiftly in the next.

“Marcel, _petit!”_ A familiar voice calls from the other end of the skull-lined corridor; turns both heads to where Serafine beckons them from around the curved path.

At the sight of her the young vampire’s eyes alight, a cry of _“Serafine!”_ leaving wet on his lips as he rushes to her. Tugs Cynbel along with.

There is no ignoring the suspicion that clouds the woman’s face when they meet. Darkness in her eyes, on the downturn of her lips where blood dries and flakes around her mouth.

He doesn’t have to ask what makes her so. Their brief moments leading up to the climax of the night still hanging, unfinished, between them over the child’s head.

A thousand questions, accusations unspoken. Pushed aside by the urgency of the hour.

“They mean to seal us off in the crypts. We must find a place to surface.”

“Banner—Kamilah—Serafine I cannot find them!”

She gently pries his grip from her skirts and cradles the boy’s cheeks. “No doubt Gaius protects them both, _petit._ Come, we must go now.”

Were the boy not between them Cynbel isn’t certain Serafine would not have left him behind. Yet with both of their hands in his he now leads the charge with fervor.

* * *

The farther they run from the grand hall the less they should smell the blood and smoke. Or so reason would dictate.

But this is not a reasonable time for anyone trapped beneath Paris; alive or undead.

With every turn the smoke chokes them harder; grows blacker and more like a disease than the omens before it. The gaping eyes of the skulls that witness their escape seem to bear down on them larger and larger with every step. _We see you,_ they say, _we welcome you — whether you want it or not._

But this—this flight of theirs—goes against his very nature. He can only succumb to it for so long. And when they catch sight of gleaming silver armor at the end of the corridor, when Serafine pushes Marcel behind her with a cry for him to double back, to change their direction, it is no longer a nature he can deny.

“Go,” he snarls, and does not rush to meet them, “get him to safety. Yourself, as well.”

“As much as I am growing to desire your true death…”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

“Martyrdom does not suit you, _Monsieur D’or.”_

“I find too much pleasure in survival to be a suitable martyr.” He throws a look back her way; sees the resisted smile on her lips. Offers up one of his own…

“Go.”

They both know he hears the falter in her footsteps at the end of the passage. The rustle of her skirts as she turns to watch the collision between them. But there is no savoring this victory without _them_ at his side — he can’t imagine even the thought of it.

The way he tears into them is animal. Cracks and crumbles the skeletal walls and leaves their bodies to rot, decay, and soon bloom new skulls to join them. Save the one he takes in hand and crushes with a wet noise between his palms.

What did she expect to see?

“You tackle them as one with experience.”

He blows a strand of hair from his eyes. _“Mademoiselle,_ may you learn this lesson soon; experience is the only thing that separates the likes of us from those already dead.”

But even as he shoves her back the way they had come, he can feel the burn of her gaze. “The Knights and I have tangled before, yes. Their order changes names, locations, ranks; but they are always the same. Always with the same holy doctrine.”

He follows her turn — the scent of their companion caught but waning fast.

“The eradication of our kind.”

“Most ardently. Their resources are vast, those who line their coffers may not even know to what end their gold meets. I assume you know of the _oh-so-charming_ King Coppernose.”

Serafine’s eyes widen. “Truly?”

“There was a reason he chose such a… _publicly gruesome_ execution for dear Queen Boleyn.”

His left hand closes tight on instinct. Craven for the beloved that is not there. But just because he cannot see Isseya does not mean she is back beneath the sword. And only because it is here — only because she has seen his weakness firsthand, Cynbel allows himself a shuddering exhale. “The influence of the Knights at the height of their control of England. Though his death led to a division of funds and they turned their sights to Spain shortly after.”

Weak are they who gossip like follies in the midst of the chase. The silence that follows stretches out — but only their rustling footsteps fill their ears.

“You speak as if they have come close to —”

“Once —” —the acrid air burns through his nostrils; pain a startlingly useful motivator— “— and never again.”

With as much as humanity has changed in the past centuries it’s not unlikely someone of the Lady Dupont’s age has come across their persistent enemies. Maybe not in name, maybe not _en masse,_ but somewhere along the line surely.

Cynbel, however, refuses to lie in wait for their inevitable collision. He seeks them out; has done to the protests of his beloveds for decades now. In England — now here in Paris.

“I would hardly be surprised if there was not an alliance among them—those feeble rulers. They’re so easily frightened of anything that might protest their power. Power they claim is theirs by divine right — the _arrogance…_

“And our very nature calls that divinity into question, does it not?” He waits for an answer but none comes. Fine with him. Valdas and Isseya — they’ve grown bored with his constant complaints of the Knights and their machinations. Fresh ears to help pass the time.

“And in that fear… came the numbers to bolster their forces. Masses desperate for something to believe in. For answers to reach out to them; a light in their dark, pitiful years.”

“A congregation for your sermon then…” she mutters under her breath, but luckily such things are easily ignored.

“What we lack in numbers our kind makes up for in strength. You saw the ballroom — you partook in it! Glorious battle, victory against the multitudes of dispensable faithful.”

“What _victory_ is there in the losses we suffered?”

“No doubt their losses were far greater in number.”

“So callous, your regard for life.”

“Why would I care about a few meager vampires?” Cynbel’s grin is wry. “Especially those who were so easily struck down.”

The shape and breath of their masques meant nothing. They were always insignificant. Would always be so. Extinguished wicks in comparison to the holy flames of his god and beloved.

Serafine; only under his protection for the consequences possible. Proving herself less and less the more she fixates on the means rather than the end.

“I just don’t understand how they could have known…” says she eventually, and he sees the way the wheel turns in her mind even through the darkness of the smoke. “Do you think the Knights have one of our own held imprisoned?”

“Does it matter?”

“How else can we ensure this never happens again?”

“We leave as many bodies as we can. That tends to send a message.”

“Even to those as vengeful as the Knights?”

Cynbel doesn’t answer right away. A grave mistake on his part — one that skids Serafine to a halt. He continues—stops only because she is obviously familiar with Kamilah, because the Godmaker might find some way to punish his lovers should she perish.

“Unless your intention is to turn back and clear the rest of the righteous horde I suggest we keep moving.” Regarding the now soot-stained skulls near the ceiling with disdain; “Who knows how many of these passages have been sealed off — they’re learning.”

But she and he are of a similar ilk; Turned in those years when doing so was a rare honor, not the desperate means of procreation it had become. Such power did not underestimate easily, surely. One look at the blazing wit behind her eyes and he, too, would have been taken with the mere potential of her.

In another life perhaps.

“I am well-versed in the depths of the depravity of _Les Trois Amants…_ but _this…”_

Which makes him have to choke back gagging on the guilt she tries to push at him in torrents. How could he do anything else? _How could he have thought she would understand?_

“Is now _really_ the moment for this?”

“No — and the fault lies with you for it.”

“Your point?”

Her eyes widen. “Those dead — and those yet to die — they were unnecessary.”

“War is not war without casualty.”

“This so-called _war_ is none but your o—!”

Her words end in breathless lungs and chipped bone fragments falling and catching in the finer embellishments of her dress. Such things tend to happen when one is shoved against a wall.

Fury brims forth — Cynbel’s strength holds her firm but there is no denying the tension coiling in the muscles of a huntress.

The crossbow bolt hisses through the smoggy air and sinks home in a different kind of dead; straight through the eye socket. Were he not facing her he isn’t sure he would have seen it coming, seen the glint of light reflecting on dirtied armor.

_Utterly silent — but how?_

Wordlessly the vampires agree for a stalemate in favor of their mutual enemies. They charge like a wall, crossbows cast aside for close-range swords and daggers. Yet they are fools — children playing with toys. Their feeble minds unable to comprehend the sheer number of years between their foes combined… how small they are in the grand design.

Their fall is nothing like their arrival. Noisy and impossible to ignore how they pile upon one another in the corridor’s confines. The dirt beneath their feet has seen too much blood already and refuses to take more; splatters their heels as the vampires continue their flight.

_It is not enough to discuss war lest one forget the war never ends._

At the end of the passage they come upon a metal rod dug and rooted into the ground. A lantern hangs from a rusted hook; the candle inside dim and near close to consuming itself — no wick left to sustain it.

He watches as Serafine unlatches the lantern with interest. Sees the silent words on her lips as she runs her fingertips over the waxy bottom until they find _whatever_ she was looking for. A set of grooves dug into the metal.

_“Rue de la Mortellerie,”_ she says finally, as though it’s supposed to mean something to him, but her relief is explanation enough; “up ahead — no more than a hundred paces. _Enfin, la liberté…”_

Yet even with the tears brimming in her eyes—relief given form—there’s no mistaking the way she looks Cynbel up and down. Saving her life has, apparently, meant nothing. Thoughts once thought cannot be removed from the mind.

And were he in her position, were the tables turned and it was he mere strides from freedom with a dead weight behind…

No; there’s no question. He would strike her down without a second thought.

But perhaps he is lucky the lady is not as selfish as himself. That she waves him to follow with a rasped _“Allez!”_ and gathers her skirts with dried blood flaking from underneath her nails and leads the way to freedom. 

The least he can do is take the first steps from the lowly chapel basement into the freedom of the night to ensure the Knights aren’t there to meet them.

But the streets of Paris still slumber, still dream. When a noise sounds distant he stills, blends himself into the shadows and watches the lumbering journey of a mule and her master none the wiser that the world is burning beneath their very feet.

Cynbel ducks his head back inside. “All is clear.” And watches her as Serafine takes great care in sealing the entrance to their secret court with an entire coffin as guise.

As far as he is concerned their alliance ends there. Is already well into the fresh night, getting his bearings on the unfamiliar part of town she has led him to when she notices he no longer stands at her back.

_“Arrêtez!”_

Her cry stills him though likely not as she intends. His eyes flicking this way and that to reassure himself they are still alone.

“Louder, perhaps,” he snarls low, “I fear the remaining Knights may not have heard you, since you mean to lead them to us!”

“Such is not an unreasonable course of action, as I am quickly beginning to learn.”

If her intention is to get his full attention—it works. “What did you just say to me?”

“I am no fool.”

“A fool’s proclamation.”

“Remorseless even now…” He would be lying if he said this was the first time he has been looked upon with such disgust as Serafine does now. It drips from her every word, from the blood that stains her chin. “But you said so yourself. You take this as a victory — even in the wake of all that has been lost.”

The river must be close, he can hear the lapping of the current against the banks. Foul and putrid as ever but with it, faint but very much there, the smell of burning flesh.

Likely it will cling to Paris; her streets, her people, her dead, for years to come.

With a single step Cynbel crosses the distance he had tried to put between them. Cups her face in broad hands and tilts her up to the light of the nearest lantern. Beautiful now even more than below; the blood-red dress splattered on her cheeks and throat… lingering in her eyes…

“Let us dispense with these games _Mademoiselle Dupont,”_ he croons close, breathes against her lips with a lover’s intimacy, “I abhor them so. I see it there—you think it hidden in your eyes but not as well as you would hope.

“You have a question as I have an answer. But… _you cannot have one without the other.”_

The same performance on a different stage. Still surrounded by the dead as they were in the crypts like no time had passed. Fulfilling, almost.

And with the knowledge that should she even attempt to wrench herself away the woman would only succeed in snapping her own neck.

But her hesitation is an insult. Cynbel tightens his hold; feels the scraping grind of her jawbones together like music to his ears.

“Paris is my home, my love; my life. Were the ranks of the faithful closing in on our people… I—I would have known.” Though it sounds awfully like she’s trying to remind herself rather than tell him. “I would have known if the Knights knew of the catacombs. _I would have known.”_

“Apparently not.”

_“You_ brought them down upon us.”

“I did.”

“Upon your own kind.”

“A debate of philosophy for another time.”

And when she finally— _finally_ —asks it is broken, strangled. The strength of her swept out in a single tear rolling down her cheek.

“Why?”

_“Because he loves us as much as we love him.”_

Serafine takes advantage of his immediate relief; pulls herself free. Maybe even means to flee, to find other survivors and maybe even the Godmaker himself to announce his deeds with violent condemnation.

But however fast she is Isseya is faster. Strikes down their hostess with the back of her hand and rides the high of conquest (that _he_ gave her, though he doesn’t expect to hear _thanks_ any time soon) with a well-placed foot.

_Crack._ Her lower leg shatters within. Her screams fill the air loud enough to wake — well, the dead.

Cynbel’s eyes flutter shut when he feels the familiar permanence at his back. Turns his head unbidden and offers his neck into the vice of Valdas’ grasp. Feels the familiar shape of Isseya’s body molding against his side and feels complete with it.

Serafine looks up at them through grit fangs and bloody spittle. Her eyes a torch ablaze on a stormy night; the passion—rage—fierce but flickering near-dead.

“You risked…” blood dribbling down her chin, “all our lives… Lives you do not know—the very _existence_ of our kind here…”

“True enough.”

_Everything — every death a debt paid, every fight a test — was worth it. For this._

_For them._

“But your lives are a sacrifice I’m willing to make.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to just add in at the end here that since this story is told (despite the third person POV) from Cynbel's perspective. So all that happened with Gaius fleeing, his anger towards the Knights/the Order, etc — count it all as still having happened. But because Cynbel wasn't there with him it isn't mentioned. Since I know there _are_ changes I make to canon I just wanted to mention that to clear a few things up. 
> 
> As always, comments and critique would be fabulous. Thank you for reading and I'll see you next week for the III finale!


	6. II.iii. The Beginning of the End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Trinity’s enemies grow in number.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **chapter content warnings:** emotional manipulation, death, blood, violence, possessiveness

_Three nights before…_   


Old wood and old metal and bones older still take refuge from the bitter night rain.

In the shadows Cynbel waits, watches. The smith brings down his hammer against white-hot metal _clang. clang. clang._ Hunting like a different kind of predator and _oh he has been so many_ that this… this he barely feels in the shift of his skin.

Steam erupts into the air, filled with the foul smell of a burning port where the worker submerges his latest creation beneath the water’s surface. Ignorant; blissfully ignorant.

“One would think after a long day’s toiling away, any opportunity for respite would be welcomed.”

Surprise catches in the mortal’s bones. Makes him release his work from the grasp of rusted tongs. He spins around, looks this way and that, but is no better than a blind man in his efforts.

“Who goes there?” Then, once the young man catches himself, “We are closed for the night. Please, return tomorrow at dawn.”

 _Does he think he plays at manhood?_ But this new age of innovation demands it of such boys, does it not. He might feel pity for them — if he could.

“Alas,” and when he replies his voice wraps around the small hovel; an embrace from Winter herself, “I cannot.”

Still the boy persists. “I insist, _monsieur.”_

“Who are you to insist of _me?”_

It’s advantageous; the hesitation that follows. Gives Cynbel a chance to emerge from his not-so-hidden refuge beside a basket of ores. He A shine catches his eye and he plucks it from the dark and misshapen pile, raises it against the light of the furnace to marvel at the gemstone’s glossy sheen.

He pockets it with little thought. A token of affection for his darling girl — so recently bored of diadems and jewelry and smitten with such… imperfections.

“Hey, that doesn’t bel—”

 _“Sssh…”_ The vampire presses a finger to his lips and the human goes quiet. Good, he likes them obedient.

This part of the workshop, back and away from the street where the front room displays the prides of masters and apprentices alike, requires a bit of meandering. But he’s an opportunistic man and takes what is offered for his own uses. Sways his hips with every movement slow, seductive.

_Every good hunter knows his prey._

And indeed — when Cynbel comes to tower over the young man’s figure he can see each bead of sweat that rolls down his temples. Not just from the room’s stifling heat. Watches one bead along a shaven chin and glisten over the lump in his throat.

Here, and now in the light, things are different. Aren’t they?

Here every pump of the mortal’s racing heart threatens to deafen him in the best of ways. Here he is illuminated in fire’s heavenly glow; and recognized.

Cynbel lets his finger fall in unspoken permission. Watches as he’s taken in rapturously and in ways he has only seen between the pious and their places of worship… in ways he, too, has found rapture from his own religion.

When the human finally speaks it is rushed; exhaled, _“I-worried-you-would-not-come…”_

“For you,” and he weaves his fingers through locks of mousy hair, uses it as a master to his hound to pull him forward; breathes his honey-drenched words against peeling lips, _“always.”_

Their kiss is desperate, fervent with inevitability. Smoke-stained hands smeared over his jaw and Cynbel resists the urge to bite out his inexperienced tongue as a second gift for his beloved. Lets himself be defiled with the touches of a young man craven for affection and so _so alone…_ unable to give it.

He would call this creature pitiful but even that would be too kind. That the mortal is too obsessed with his own gratification to realize every drop of passion is entirely from his own cup, that Cynbel’s cup could not be more barren in his presence, is nothing short of pathetic.

He pulls back as he always does. Stops those dirty wandering fingers as he always does. Kisses the day’s work from trembling knuckles as he always does.

“What kept you away?” The mortal whimpers.

And as he always does Cynbel lies through his teeth. “It matters not — that you stand before me now is more than enough.”

The mortal beams with pride. Though that is not the only vice Cynbel has been able to impart on him.

Everything in the smithy is exactly the same as he had left it a fortnight ago — well, almost.

He doesn’t have to pretend in this. The way he (none too) gently urges the wayward man aside to cross the room in several strides. Among the hammers and horseshoes the work done here is for the meager rank and file of Paris. Nothing as flashy as settings for gems or swords for battle. Cynbel knows this because his time has been well-spent these last months. Because the thing that separates the hunters who fail from the ones who survive is found in the little things.

Surveying the prey. Entering its nest. Staking its claim over the carcass before it has even been devoured.

Knowing all that he does — it begs the question of the mannequin—freshly carved—and the armor—freshly polished—settled snug upon it.

“Is this your work?”

He looks back and hears the skip in the mortal’s heart as he nods. “Indeed. Are you taken with it?”

“As taken as I am with you,” he croons in response; and knows the flush in living cheeks is not from the heat.

“That is why I am still here, actually,” he remembers his work then, and plucks the now solid metal from the bucket to wipe it dry with his sleeve. Small, in comparison to the rest of the pieces, but Cynbel takes it when it is offered; lets their touch linger in a promise he does not intend to keep.

The fastening is crude; its finer points interrupted by Cynbel’s arrival. But the sigil would be difficult _not_ to recognize — especially for his kind. The halo around the center meant to be the sun. The _fleur de lis_ enshrined within it in need of a little more dedication to be perfect.

More likely than not his little apprentice smith knows not what he is being asked to make. The holy war he is urging forward in his own way. A suspicion confirmed as Cynbel offers the work back and allows the mortal to continue to hold his hand.

“This is the only thing left. The master had just arranged contract with the Duke who ordered it when he fell ill,” —he explains this like Cynbel doesn’t know, like he didn’t _ensure it_ — “and as his eldest apprentice the duty fell to me. I don’t know what overcame me, my love… it was as though the muses of old inspired my every movement.

“I missed you terribly, Claude, but I was fortunate there was this work to help me pass the time.”

_Should he never hear the false name given for this ruse again it would be too soon._

Cynbel gestures to the armor, a _“may I?”_ whispered reverent on his lips. With the human’s permission he steps closer, ghosts his touch over the refined metal. Imagines all the ways he will go about tearing it from whatever unfortunate soul it is given to limb from bloody, gory limb.

“You have outdone yourself.”

“Truly?”

 _Is the first of his praises not enough? Disgusting whelp._ “Truly and more. I dare say whomever commissioned this will command any battlefield.”

Warm arms encircle his waist. The tack of the human’s sweating forehead presses against his doublet and already Cynbel begins practicing the apologies he will give to his beloveds upon his return. No doubt his Lord and Love will banish him from the apartment for the stench.

It is torture, pure and simple.

“May I confess something to you, Claude?”

Cynbel swallows back his bile. “Anything, always.” And he doesn’t need to see the human’s face to hear his pathetic _‘secret.’_

“The Duke has sent word he will arrive in Paris tomorrow — and he hopes to see how the piece is coming along. I hope to convince him of my skill… perhaps even take some of the spoils for myself.”

 _Greed._ One of the few things that make his presence bearable against all his shortcomings.

Cynbel turns in his arms; feigns as though he could never imagine such a scandal. “And what of your master? Will he not cast you out for the gall of it?”

“Perhaps he may not be around long enough to do such.”

“Don’t sound so hopeful.”

“Why not, when you inspire in me such a wonderful hope?”

Their second kiss is far more chaste, entirely so on part of the vampire. The disappointment on the other’s face is impossible to miss.

“Something the matter?”

“I would not have your well-earned pride ruined for it. Pay me no mind.”

“Claude,” Cynbel’s cheeks are taken in grimy mortal hands and he shivers, lets him take it as he wishes, “there is no joy I can bask in without _you._ Let me ease the weight on your chest. Please.”

Let it be known that he does not _give in_ to the mortal’s whims. But with demons of the night leaping from shadow to shadow among the rafters, with every horrendous and degrading sentiment forced through his teeth; then and there Cynbel has had _enough._ Enough pretending, enough disgust.

Enough with feeling somehow unworthy of the love bestowed upon him when he returns to the arms of the ones with whom he truly belongs. Oh they placate him dutifully but he sees the twitch of a sensitive nose — a touch moved elsewhere at the last moment. These things are their prey; no better than chattel.

He was amusing at first. But…

“You have simply outlived your usefulness to me.” _With no risk comes no reward_ they say but there is no _risk_ here. He might be inclined to entertain it further if there was.

And like a child the human seems only to hear the kindly things. Continues to hold him, to adore him. To sicken him.

So he continues. “There is no risk, here. Only the continued debasement of the Golden Son, of the first of Valdemaras’ blood. If, when all the ages wither, I find in my soul no love of self then I must at _least_ continue to love the part of me that is my God. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Sure enough that rouses him. As if from a slumber. The masquerade finally coming to a close.

“I don’t understand.”

“Was I not speaking French?” _Which could have been a possibility._ As it is his muscles tense, predatory, in preparation of the first violent act that comes to mind.

“Yes, Claude, but — what you are saying makes little sense.”

So simpering, so pitiful that Cynbel actually stomachs the will to kiss him again. If only to whisper the insult to his lips; “I would expect nothing less of such a feeble mind.”

He’s seen heartbreak before. This is not it. This is a pantomime—what the inexperienced whelp _believes_ heartbreak to be. Tries, so fleetingly, to wrench himself from Cynbel’s grasp but the charade is _finally over._ And with it the need to disguise his true strength.

“I had hoped you would have completed _all_ of the armor in time, and maybe had I a stronger constitution one more night would have done the trick.” He looks back to the suit with true critique in his newfound eyes. Such a waste — talent like that in the hands of a worm. “But their sigil is clear enough that any member would recognize it as their own. I suppose there’s a poetic drama to the incomplete set.

“Isseya would know of such things better than I. She’s quite taken with the stage. She is the voice behind my tender affections towards you in fact.”

All the while the human tries to free himself to no avail. His workman’s hands are used to shaping manacles but have never been imprisoned by them after all.

Finally some sense comes about the man. All the telltale signs of a scream; flared nostrils, flushed pallor, the sour odor of fear near his knocking knees. _Too late._

_“HE—!”_

Valdas would be proud how he silences any cry _and_ practices for the upcoming ball in one swift movement. Pulling so hard he feels the joint come loose in a feeble shoulder and presses them close as lovers, back to front; molded against every vibrating measure of him and a hand tight over his lips.

“Ah ah ah…” He turns them both to face his work. Will give him that final gift of his life’s work burned behind his eyelids in the moments before death. “Don’t you want to _know, my love?_ To _understand?”_

The fussy little fucker actually _shakes his head._ As though that will save him. As if he is held captive only until Cynbel has given him light where there was previously only darkness.

But that light is not for him. It belongs to them.

 _He_ belongs to them.

“If that is what you wish, fine. Throw away my gift, and your life with it.”

_“Mmmph!”_

“No no taking it back now. My mind is made up.”

 _“MMmnpm…”_ A needling heat pierces his skin. The sight of it makes the vampire laugh.

“A _tear,_ really? And here I thought it was quite impossible for me to think less of you.”

He wrestles the human’s head to position; nearly breaks his neck several times in the process. Forces him to take in the splendor that will soon serve as a crafted casket for whatever heathen is suffered to wear it.

Unsympathetic, Cynbel places a final kiss to his temple. “Everything is in place now darling. I want you to know I could not have done it without you. Well—no—I just cannot help myself but lie to you it seems.” Another wave of muffled whimpers drowned in his laughter. “But you have made it easier on me. The Knights will collect your work and your corpse with it. One little life — that’s all it will take to earn their ire. Clever little hellions that they are… they’ll follow every crumb I’ve left. All. the way. to me.

“If my beloved is correct—if the Godmaker _graces_ the evening with his vile presence—then I may finally have the opportunity to rid the world of _two_ evils. Can you imagine? No longer looking over our shoulders… no longer fearing unholy wrath…” The very thought has him in near ecstasy. Actually—quite close to the real thing.

But thoughts of a life free of the Knights draw him, as they inevitably do, to a darker place. 

To the cursed memories of Isseya prone, neck bare… _to the taste of steel on his tongue and the delicious smell of roasted game—but he was the meal of bubbling blistering flesh and every tear he shed—she shed a fresh wave of agon—_

“The events that will unfold will ensure their safety. No one will _dare_ to take them from me ever again…” Cynbel surprises them both in that his voice breaks with unbridled fury, with withheld anguish.

_“Lest they remember what befell the last to even try.”_

Countless hours spend seducing the young smith who surely had a name that he hadn’t bothered to remember go to waste, then. Such a fragile neck in his grasp — the way it sounds when it _snaps_ is like the first notes of a sonnet.

But there’s still one crucial crumb that needs leaving. One that will ensure the Holy Sacred Knights of the Rising Dawn know exactly _who_ has courted them such.

One that will ensure they amass their armies beneath Paris in droves. 

One fallen innocent is a message. 

A slaughtered horde—that’s a warning.

He takes his leave of the workshop in much the same way as he entered; undetected by any soul living or dead. The mortal’s blood is tacky on his soaked hands the long walk back to their lodgings. He wants his lovers to taste of the wretched little cur so they know; so they _understand._

Their sigil—the Brand of the Made-God Valdemaras—left to dry red on the breastplate. The unfinished clasp fastened neatly in the middle.

* * *

It was not unheard of for the vampires of Paris to think themselves important. Far more relevant than they actually are. Cynbel had gazed upon the half-masque of Serafine Dupont in the halls below and assumed her prestige nothing more than vanity; the hostess putting on airs for her guests.

But he’s a big enough man to admit when he’s wrong.

It takes a skill honed from centuries for the discipline she shows now. All of her remaining strength fixated on her injuries, on the effort to stand and set the bone to heal. A wound that would cripple a mortal—and even a younger vampire—rendered fruitless as muscle and flesh knit together in the tapestry of her dedication.

They watch the show of her impressed — but never intimidated. They will give credit where it is due.

With a vengeful cry she lunges forward and all credit is lost when her open palm meets his face.

Cynbel reaches up, feels the heat of the sting on his cheek with a shiver down his spine. Like all pain it fades too fast — but while there may be no more Knights in vain attempts to slay him Serafine still stands there and she looks positively _craven_ for the excuse to strike again.

A look seen by more than just him. One that lands her pinned to a building exterior with splayed limbs and Valdas’ hand around her throat.

_“Apologize.”_

Yet even as his darling’s softer hands skirt feather-light touches over his healed skin Cynbel laughs. Laughs and laughs and adjusts his hair where the whore had sent it askew.

“No no, let her come for me. The Knights proved no _real_ contest, maybe she’ll last a moment or two longer than they.”

“How dare you mock them,” seethes the woman with labored breaths; and because it isn’t the apology he asked for Valdas only tightens his grip, only strains her further in a wraithish rasp, “have you no grief for our brothers, our sisters who were slaughtered?!”

“They are no kin of ours.” Isseya answers for him. He snakes an arm around her waist and squeezes.

“Forgive her, my God,” he croons, would rather keep his lovers close than risk their already fractured good luck, “the poor thing seems to be under the impression we are on some equal standing.”

And he does, eventually, let her go. But only when it takes longer than a passing moment for the carvings of his nails at her neck to heal. 

“A mistake she would do well not to make again.”

Serafine’s eyes are wild; a frightened animal that takes them in all at once. The way they were meant to be understood — the way they had always been understood. Her voiceless words aren’t worth the effort it would take to even _try_ to comprehend her.

“The same blood runs through your veins that does mine, _le tueur.”_ She snarls.

Isseya’s eyes narrow. “Not for long. Not with that foul tongue.”

“Now now, Iss’, let the little thing mourn.” Cynbel attempts to placate her with long, slow pets to her hair.

“She dare call _you_ the killer when those sycophants live?”

She turns her face away from their accuser, tucked into the ridge of his shoulder and Cynbel holds her tighter for it. Knows that she, too, is plagued with memory. That if he coaxed her face up he would see the shine of unshed tears in her beautiful eyes.

 _“Less of them now,”_ he whispers, _“thanks to us.”_ For now it is all he can offer her. And for now it is enough. They only have this thorn to deal with before he can comfort Isseya—both of his lovers—properly and as they deserve.

“And while the Knights posed an entertaining foe, I’ll admit there were far more of our kind in attendance tonight than I thought there would be. The cost should have dwarfed the rewards.”

“What _rewards?_ What reward could there possibly be for the senseless murder of our kind?!”

“Victory over the Knights of course.”

The noise she makes; strangled and not quite fully alive before it died in her throat, only amuses the woman on his arm. Has her reaching out for their God like she wants to mock Serafine. And that may very well be the case. 

_Here is my salvation. Where is yours?_

“How was this to be a victory? You speak like —”

“Like he tipped the scales of this war with a battlefield of his own choosing?” offers Valdas -- now comfortable against his surviving lovers. “A soldier ‘til the end, my golden boy.”

Here he thought the deaths of the Knights would not be the only victory this night — the next to come much later and wrapped in sheets of the finest imported silk. But here stands another much to his surprise, crept up out of the gutters like vermin.

It is with utter delight that Cynbel watches Serafine come to understand the truth of the matter; watches the horror and disgust twist upon her beautiful features somehow made better by all-consuming sorrow.

Fills him with an arousal usually reserved for carnage and lovemaking; but this works too.

“You— You… _brought_ the Knights of the Dawn to the crypts?”

“I didn’t hold their hands, no, though I almost needed to. Fucking simpletons.”

The woman’s voice catches. _“How?”_

“The righteous are terribly predictable. A few bodies here, a few whispers there. If they think their cause to be one of justice they’re akin to a persistent plague.”

Serafine is less an annoyance now; more a festering wound. Really, _must_ she take the fun out of it? As it is he has to reconcile with the Godmaker surviving — no doubt leagues from Paris by now with his Bloodqueen in tow. _Can he not just have this?_

“You _orchestrated_ this… this _culling?”_

“Those who died did so because of their own weakness.”

_“You willingly led our enemies straight to us!”_

“And now they are an army fewer in number.”

The look he gives her — disinterest, boredom. _If you seek to make me remorseful you seek in vain._

“Monsters,” Serafine finally chokes out; said to them all but Cynbel takes it just a tad personally, “monsters… the three of you. _Les Trois Amants_ no more than old, cruel, mindless creatures of bloodshed.”

“Not quite,” Cynbel’s hand stays his Maker from attacking her, allows him to meet her gaze level and calm with a lover on each arm. United; permanent.

“Where they seek justice I gave vengeance. That I was able to lead them to us at all says all the things you wish to ignore—to put as blame upon _my_ shoulders. The Knights would have eventually discovered the catacombs our refuge. If not tonight then tomorrow, or a fortnight from now. Would you rather that, _mademoiselle?_ Would you rather they have had the time to plan, to cut off completely all means of escape? 

“You should be _thanking me_ that the living outnumber the dead. And that you may count yourself among them.” And with his victory inevitably wilted Cynbel has had enough of her accusations. “But yes — I would watch every vampire alive burn at the hands of the Knights themselves so long as my beloveds are by my side.”

With the last of her strength the vampiress snarls with fangs bared. Such a pitiful portrait she paints of herself; he knows it, all three of them do. It doesn’t even warrant Valdas’ reaction and isn’t that saying something.

“You _will_ see justice at the hands of your enemies.”

“Four centuries and the bastards have yet to do any lasting damage.” An amusing thought, too.

“The Holy Knights are not your only enemy today.”

He can see it, too. A hotter, blinding flame burning inside of her far stronger than the ones that ravage underneath their feet. _Give it a century or two,_ he thinks, _and it will be snuffed out with the rest._

Two sets of hands try to keep him close but he gently coaxes them aside. Approaches the tempest before him with her wild eyes and wild hair and finds satisfaction in the flinch of her when his fingertips graze her silken chin.

“My victory is—has always been—inevitable, _ma chérie._ And I look forward to the _prestige_ it will bring.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully this story reminded you that however endearing their love might be the Trinity are very much _not_ the heroes of this or any tale. Next week we’ll b heading overseas and 200 years forward. Those of you who went with Adrian to Marcel’s Library in _BB1_ may remember a throwaway line about a war between vampires and vampire hunters in the 19th century? Well... of course the Trinity was there. Comments and critique would be fabulous. Thank you for reading!


	7. III.i. A Funeral and a Pyre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #### Part III.
> 
> — Virginia, 1857. It was supposed to be their chance at freedom — their Shadow Kingdom. Instead it has become a battlefield. Tensions rise as the nation whispers of civil war and humans and vampires alike learn even freedom demands blood. No more will they pray to be saved. Not when the Shadow eclipses the Dawn.
> 
> * * *
> 
> The Trinity will always be fighting for their freedom. The Godmaker has made sure of that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **chapter content warnings:** mature sexual content, blood, gore, death, cannibalism, language, violence

_Virginia, 1857_

They get a fair distance from camp before it dawns on them both. _They aren’t far enough._

Perhaps they have been spending too much time around mortal-kind. Not that either man would admit it.

So a fair distance goes just a little but further. Until their ears cannot pick up the din of tin flatware and the crackle of the fire. If they cannot hear their companions then they, too, cannot be heard.

The canopy is thin this time of year — summer long-gone and autumn welcomed in its place in falling leaves and nights that leave bitter fingertips come morning light.

Fingertips that, now and _finally blissfully_ alone, come together in barely-there touches. They know the other’s touch as well as—if not better than—their own. Proven as much in the surety of their actions. In the wordless way their foreheads come together and share the things that should repulse them; the dirt and sweat and gunpowder clinging in vain.

But they know better; know one another better know themselves better than to think something as temporary as the earth beneath their boots could lessen their inevitable desires.

The rugged palm of his forever comes up to hold Cynbel’s cheek — to capture this moment in time and bring it to the reverent place where they keep every other.

 _Distraught are the souls who are unknown of such rapture,_ he thinks — and pities them, _that they may try to take their god into themselves in words and scripture, but know flesh is beyond them._

He’ll never know what _blind faith_ feels like. He walked in to his faith with eyes wide open and led by a divine hand.

Supplies are low— _have been for some time_ though that is a thought for any time but now—but they make due. Use blood and spit and take their precious time while grass tickles their bare skin. At one point a dead leaf crumbles under Valdas’ palm and the pair laugh at the sight. Find joy in the little moments even after all these years.

And _oh, how many years there have been._ How is it that each time is as familiar and as new as their first had been? _How is he so lucky?_

Valdas stills inside of him; eclipses the sliver of the moon overhead as if he was not already Cynbel’s sky and stars. “Does my lovemaking bore you?”

 _What a ridiculous question._ “Never.”

“Then what has you both beneath me and so very far away?”

 _Ah._ He nods, feels the catch of twigs in his hair absently. Runs long fingers up the canvas of Valdas’ outer thigh before gripping it tight to hold them together as only lovers know.

“Do you know something I _hate_ about this continent?”

Valdas barks a laugh. “I know many things you hate about America, my darling. You never waste an opportunity to make that abundantly clear.”

“Fair point.”

“But for the sake of the vice-grip you have on my cock, _what do you hate about this continent,_ Cynbel?”

As amusing as it would be to torture them both for hours upon hours… They just don’t have that kind of time here.

“There are no ruins. No crumbled temples or ill-kept shrines. Well… none that have not been bastardized by invaders but —” _but he, too, would seek release at least thrice tonight,_ “— and somehow the lack of such things makes me miss them all the more. It makes me miss your altar all the more, my Holy One.”

He smiles as recognition can be found in the dark eyes overhead. In the curve of Valdas’ smirk and the way he rolls his hips and brings them together near-seamlessly.

“While I too find myself reminiscing on such glory days —” the man beneath him keens in pleasure, body scrambling desperately to keep him inside but unable to deny him, “— I don’t let them take priority over the now. Especially when _now_ is equally glorious.”

Valdas punctuates the word with a jerk of his hand, stroking Cynbel in something akin to haste. A direct opposition to his leisurely fucking. And while the contrast is good enough to bring his devoted progeny back with him to the present something unfamiliar lingers.

_Hesitation. Doubt?_

“It… _is_ found equally so Cynbel… right?”

Perhaps before he would have taken such a question as insult. Would have disparaged his god for believing him to be anything other than in a constant state of growing love for him. Before all of this.

Before the war.

Thankfully for them both Valdas knows better than to take his lover’s silence as an answer he may not wish to hear. Resumes his pace and lets it build — lets _them_ build. But his patience has a limit. Cynbel would know… he’s been the test of it for millennia now. He _will_ have his answer before the night is through.

And he does — his golden son’s spite showing through in that he withholds it until Valdas falls atop the length of him, utterly spent and not in the least bit sated. Sweat and orgasm smeared between the places they long to knit together. To become one.

“It is not.”

The body above his tenses, readies to pull away. But it is only in things like this that Cynbel can refuse his Lord and Light. Only in the ways that ensure they are kept close; that they are kept whole and together.

Valdas pulls his head back enough to look up with guarded eyes. Sees mirth reflected back in dim pools of blue and the frustration he feels isn’t unknown to either of them. Though it _is_ usually reserved for their beloved third.

Cynbel cards his fingers through Valdas’ dark hair and continues, “It can never be _equally so,_ never in all our years. Because, my petulant divinity, each time with you is made ripe with age, seasoned with our years and the things we have done together, done with Isseya.

“It is _never_ the same. It is _always better.”_

It is how they came to start and how they will end.

 _Though,_ he thinks — and lets himself fall back into the embrace of the earth with his religion hovering atop him, enveloping him; keeping him safe and giving him purpose in this endless labyrinth of eternity, _if they are truly so blessed it will not be for many years to come._

* * *

Cynbel always makes sure he is the last of their regiment to enter the mines. Not only to ensure the safety of his beloveds but because it gives him the chance to see the barest ridges of sunrise over the steep Virginia hills. He waits until his eyes burn and send tears tracking hot down his cheeks — and then just a moment more.

He is never more glad of having no need to breathe than he is here. The newest among them still cover their mouths with scraps of cloth as though it is the coal around them they must fear, not the circumstances in which they have found themselves.

Especially to those such as the Trinity. To have wandered the freedom of the undiscovered world only now to cower under piles of stone.

One way in, one way out.

One more thing stacked against their favor in this their war for survival.

The hard-packed dirt makes it impossible for him to settle comfortable. Cynbel tries his best to find distraction in something—anything. And would be lost if he did not have the beauty of Isseya to gaze upon in the black.

She removes her hat and goes about the same routine she always does come morning light. Removes each of the fastenings that pin up her hair with the same care she used to give to the finest silks and fastenings of pure gold. The uniform she wears now does not do her justice — rather the opposite. She makes the ill-fitting coat look worthy of royalty even now.

“You’re staring.”

His smile is biological; instinctual. “Can you blame me? You know I have a weakness for pretty things.”

“Indeed…” she cards through her hair; lets the waves rest and he couldn’t possibly find her anything other than ethereal, “as I know they will be your undoing. You linger too long, Cynbel.”

Yet even as she says it she leans against him. Emotions are beyond the touch of flesh, now. And in this dirty hole no better than the coffins they have avoided for two thousand years… he cannot imagine doing it without her comfort.

“Yes yes — save it. I’ve heard it all before.”

“When you were feeding regularly. And I don’t chide you for stealing a moment away with our beloved—really I don’t. But you’re both fools for choosing not to conserve your strength.”

Their eyes meet in the dark. Held in a gaze of mutual longing… before he throws an arm around her shoulders and pulls her tighter against him. “Careful, Iss’. You almost sound _responsible.”_

“Someone has to be, what with you two wandering the woods like incubi.”

“What happened to the _fun_ Isseya? I miss her.”

“Piss off…”

Their words may sting but all is soothed in a kiss. Long enough to make the vampires trying to sleep on the other side of the tunnel shift in discomfort — because she still _is_ his darling minx at heart. But without her clear head they might not have lasted this long.

“Where is Valdas?”

Cynbel rests their foreheads close. “First watch.” Immediately he feels Isseya’s anger — holds her ever-tighter to ensure she doesn’t do anything brash. Not much for them to do stuck in here as they are, but he understands. “This is why he did not tell you. Relax, my love, please. We would not be here if it was not a secure place to hide from the daylight.”

The day watch is something they all must endure at one point or another. Such is their duty to the regiment; a task that discriminates on nothing and asks only that you do your part. _As they all are doing their parts in this war._

And, as he is quite sure Isseya will agree, he rests easier knowing the one on the front line, the first defense between a den of sleeping vampires and the onslaught of the Order, is someone he would (and has) trusted with his life for thousands of years before.

For example — the scraggly boy who sits across, whose head keeps lolling around from slumber only to wake himself back up — Cynbel would rather place his fate in the hands of, say, Kamilah Sayeed. That boy looks like he can defend nothing.

But surely he looks no better. Starving as he is and now with a night of rough passion to further sap his strength.

 _One more day of this and they will reach Charlottesville._ Hopefully with enough moonlight left in the night to sate their hunger. Even the thought of a neck, warm and not-necessarily-willing, underneath his mouth leaves him craven.

Isseya sees the needless torture in his eyes and at the very least it helps to know he isn’t alone.

Falling asleep is the hardest part. While Cynbel hasn’t slept alone in over a thousand years he isn’t exactly accustomed to sharing quarters with more than his lovers. With more than those he know intimately. Now he is expected to share the daylight hours meant for rest with complete strangers; their faces and stories ever-changing, one swapped out for another with every battle and every loss. _More losses than he cares to think about_ — even if the dead have no one to blame but themselves for their fate.

But like all things it is made easier with her presence. Her touch, her breath on his neck. The Children of Valdemaras cling to one another among the rest and know that they are together.

And together they are made immortal.

* * *

It is rare to find a church in disrepair in these times. Faith seems to have an endless strength with which to carry humanity. _And with which to draft them for battle,_ he thinks, and knows he isn’t the only one who finds a twisted sense of satisfaction as they pass the church’s boarded-up front doors.

 _Charlottesville._ The last safe place left for their kind in the colonies — though even those were but a sliver of the developing nation that called itself America. While most cities and towns would be found with barren midnight streets it is the opposite here. Cynbel’s roaming eyes take in clusters of evening gatherers, are taken in themselves by the very same, and they simply _know._

They were all summoned by the same man after all.

Even in the midst of a war for their very survival Cynbel finds it hard to believe the Godmaker has even the slightest capacity for compassion. Once upon a time it was simply fact that Augustine cared for naught but his ambitions. But over time all facts from the Old World were becoming irrelevant; laughable superstition even.

He would amend his beliefs, then. Allow for the same leniency Augustine had shown them no more than a decade ago — the wolves let back among the rest of the pack to ensure their species would continue. Would have a _chance_ to continue.

The lists of names in smudge-free care that hang in the foyer, however, would challenge those beliefs further.

Near a dozen frames hang on either side of the corridor stretching back into the heart of Augustine’s Manor. He recognizes the handwriting to be the same from the missive which drew them all to Virginia in the first place. Takes in each name as passively as he does the faces of the flock.

What good does it do him to idolize the fallen? No longer will they accomplish anything worth being honored for.

Isseya’s hand brushes against his; a subtle comfort in unfamiliar territory. One he returns in kind.

“Remember,” she says to him, says to Valdas half a step ahead of them both, “all of this will be worth it in the end. Our freedom will be sweeter than the spoils of this war.”

Still, Cynbel’s upper lip curls in distaste. “I haven’t forgotten.”

“Then _look it,_ perhaps?”

The last page must be a recent addition. The lacquered frame shiny and new and without dust, the wall around it smelling of fresh paint. And inside — a memorial not-yet finished, the last name still an aching distance away from the bottom of the page.

Hung in effigy and removed when the time comes to grow the collection of the dead.

“It’s these names…” Cynbel catches his reflection and stops; takes in the gaunt hollowness of his eternal youth in the protective glass, “they mock me — they mock us all.”

Valdas watches him with an unreadable expression. “They are the fallen.”

“They are the _weak.”_ He corrects, in that moment made no more than men on equal standing.

“Weak enough to fail; to die. There is no honor in only being remembered after you’re dead. Honor me in life—demand more of me than I have already achieved. Instead of… _idolizing me_ in my failure.”

Battles bring out in him the thrilled hunter. Wars, however, have made him old and temperamental.

Valdas’ hand finds his, laces their fingers together sure and strong. Isseya’s soft hand on his cheek is the only thing that drags Cynbel’s eyes from his contempt and to them — he could never look at them in such a way and they know it.

“We are fortunate then to never have to worry about such things.” She reminds him. And it is enough.

Together the Trinity is led onward. Passed what must have been built as a polished office but instead serves better purpose as a war room. Papers and maps strewn on every available surface and then some. The toll war takes on even those as seasoned as the Godmaker brought to life.

One map is hammered into the wall obscuring a painting of some kind. Knowing Augustine — one of his many portraits sacrificed for the ‘greater good.’ He recognizes landmarks and the border territories of Virginia’s surrounding states all hidden underneath spools’ worth of colored yarn acting as… as…

 _Ah,_ he understands after the office and map are several paces abandoned. Dark wax seals acting as markers for battles Cynbel himself had participated in… _had fled from against everything gnawing hungry at his gut…_

Far more losses than victories. Their supply routes bottlenecked — then extinguished. Fewer and fewer safe places to hold down fort through the long summering days to come. Battle after battle has blinded him to the truth now laid bare; unavoidable.

_The Order is winning._

The air in the dining room, when they arrive, is a stifling heat. The smell of gas lingering high towards the ceiling. Antique candelabras—remnants from the Old World—stand vigil over a feast of kings. Sweet breads still steaming and the ashy aroma of well-bred meats. Vegetables no doubt from the fields they had just passed through on their journey. All decadent — all utterly wasteful.

All no better than a table of writhing maggots and soured mold in the face of the real hunger that consumes them.

“Valdemaras — how _kind_ of you to finally grace us with your presence.”

Of course the Godmaker’s first words are a snide remark. Cynbel expects nothing less. But to bite the hand that feeds now would be suicide. He bites his tongue instead.

The King and Queen of Vampires take up either end of the long oak table. Guests — an unexpected and certainly unwelcome surprise — litter across the length of it. He can smell the blood in their wine glasses. Reaches out to cut his nail into Isseya’s palm to keep himself in check.

Cynbel doesn’t have to look up to know Augustine is looking upon the pair of them, Valdas’ only children, with disdain.

“I believe I told the messenger boy the nature of this meeting.”

Valdas nods; his chin raised among his lessers but eyes downcast in the face of his Maker. “A meeting of officers, yes. The message was relayed in full.”

“Then explain yourself.” _Why are they with you,_ the question unasked. That he still _has_ to ask in some form or another after all these years…

“Where I go they will follow. Always.”

_Always._

But this war has changed more than the Trinity — it has changed the so-called ruler of their people. Gaius’ noise of discontent is only brief; stifled with supper. He waves to an empty seat on his right. “Enough time has been wasted in anticipation of your arrival. Join us and send your ilk elsewhere.”

“I would see them fed after the long journey.”

“Very well.”

Though their devotion is like a brand upon their shared skins — their love as famous as their cruelty, as infamous as the bodies left in their wake — Cynbel and Isseya don’t allow themselves the pettiness that might come with the way Valdas takes his leave of them. They must play their role as their Lord and Light plays his. All of it an act; dancing around a carnival faire for the Godmaker’s amusement.

When the curtain closes they will be free of him. Valdas ensures it with every placating act. He is willing to sacrifice for them — how could they do anything less but the same?

They wait until he is seated. A young boy approaches with a pitcher and pours their beloved his fresh meal. Their eyes meet over the head of a bearded officer and Cynbel knows his beloved will not consume in front of them. In solidarity.

“Leave!” Augustine barks; they do not give him chance to do so twice.

* * *

They arrive at the end of a funeral. Isseya recognizes the sight of ashes catching on the breeze; carrying whoever they once were far off and to a better life than the one that failed them.

 _How very… human._ The sight of it nearly ruins his appetite.

In front of a dozen or so gathered stands a lone man. In his hands rests a plain box bearing no carvings or paint. The dead as nameless as the living.

Together they have no intention of stopping — when Cynbel feels resistance in their held hands he even looks at her as though she’s gone a touch mad.

But his beloved girl’s focus is cast over the field of grass to the ceremony. A furrow he does not like crinkles restless on her brow. They keep their distance but, for all intents and purposes, join in.

The leader’s voice carries rich and sweet over them all.

“It is from Her blood we are made anew; given strength and life where there was none to be found. But with each life born another must depart, for only She may live forever. And in that eternity we must believe She will be there to welcome our fallen friend, that She will accept the gift he now gives — Her strength no longer needed in this life.

“In these ill times, my brothers and sisters, the journey seems an unending path. But with each departed Her power grows… And I believe that by the end of this war it will be enough to see Her risen again, to bring Her to us in our darkest hour. Have faith beside me and She will see it rewarded.”

Cynbel would recognize such a reverence anywhere — bastardized by the New World though it may be. _Of course the Godmaker had taken upon himself an opportunity that could not be passed up._ The First Son of Valdemaras can’t say he wouldn’t have done the same in Augustine’s shoes.

Everyone needed something to believe in. Someone in which to rest their faith when they believed their destiny out of their own hands.

Not all were as lucky as Cynbel and Isseya. Not all were able to see the living face of their god and know the surety that came with it.

Not all yet understood that none could make their path but themselves. Divine intervention would not come unless one took it by the reins.

_Or… in Valdas’ case, anyway, the fangs._

“Must we really house ourselves among these fanatics?” Whispers his darling, and Cynbel’s nod is a reluctant one.

“Better than a mine shaft.”

“And not with our heart.”

“He will join us soon enough. Rather in this life than in the home that Augustine would no doubt set aflame if we even tried.”

The look he gives her is rueful enough. Presses a solid kiss to her frown because he hates the sight of it, truly, and they leave the mourners to their invisible Goddess and Her empty promises for the promise of temporary peace.

Inside the barn has been converted into barracks for their like. Windows covered in layers of cloth and boarded up for good measure. Anything to keep the numbers of Augustine’s army. The Trinity exchange looks and know they are of the same mind; that to stay in such squalor is, as he said, _“better than a mine shaft”_ but not by much.

They used to rest their heads under endless skies. After that with headboards of marble, of gold. Sheets beneath bare flesh woven by expert hands until they bled… and then more. Certainly more than the thin cots of stuffed hay and threadbare blankets they take up in this hellish space.

The blood is fresh enough to still be liquid in the bowls they take but only just. It curdles on the back of Cynbel’s tongue to the point where he has to hold Isseya’s hand near-breaking to stomach it. And on an empty stomach it refuses to settle — makes him feel sluggish and not at all satisfied.

Isseya coaxes Cynbel to sit on the edge of a bunk near the back of their quarters. Lets him hang his head while she comes up from behind and eases his uniform from his shoulders. That her touch does not immediately excite him is a testament to how hungry he truly is — but she knows him well enough by now not to take offense.

She’s seen him in the heat of the slaughter after all. Let her nakedness be a canvas of blood of which he was a master on par with the greats of the Renaissance.

_They have before and they will again. Together. A trinity._

Though the closed-off space makes it impossible to know for certain Cynbel is sure he can feel morning dogging at the heels of the vampires who finally join them. Their things already resting by besides, some sharing a bucket of well-water to wash old blood from their bowls; they have called this place home for longer than the lovers.

The contentment of their routine disgusts him. The ageless thumbs pressing into the base of his spine eases that hatred only just.

She works him as she always has — down to the bone and further still. His muscles gone pliant under her touch, craven for it to continue. Desperate for the solace only she can provide. 

Hands that once slaughtered her own family in the name of the Made-God and his Firstborn… that would have soaked endless stretches of land in blood if it meant appeasing them.

They pretend to sleep before they really are. He pulls Isseya on top of him and she doesn’t resist in the least. Here at least they can sleep comfortable even if it only ends up being the barest definition of the word. 

Cynbel hears a whisper that might sound something like _“They’ll break the cot that way,”_ but he’s hungry, he’s exhausted, and _damnable hells_ he’s horny too and Isseya’s no prude but neither of them are in any fit state to be working themselves up right now.

So he lets it slide. This time. But his generosity has its limits.

They’ve gotten so used to the darkness of the mines during their slumbering hours that seeing sunlight stream through one uncovered sliver in the barn thatching is jarring to say the least.

But it reminds Cynbel of better times. Some happier — some not. But all of them better. Better than this hell he cannot even find contentment in. _If it were a hell of his own making, perhaps… but it is not even that!_

“What are you thinking about?”

The bunk they’ve taken is several cots away from the last of the vampires. And Isseya — his darling girl knows exactly how to whisper so their better ears cannot hear. Usually used for things of a far more seductive and sultry nature… but it works, too, in this.

“What would you wish me to think of?” She smacks his chest none-too-lightly and his laughter isn’t without a cough or two.

“You know that’s not how this works.”

“Fine, fine —” he relents and her heart leaps against his chest in victory, “— but you of all people know my thoughts are rarely so simple.”

He laces their fingers together, would rather she simply find what she wishes inside of his mind. A memory or dream that could take them far away from here and, ideally, with their beloved Lord.

They’re both too hungry, too weak for that. And without Valdas wrapped somewhere around or between them it just isn’t worth the energy.

“You like to think yourself so complicated… but I know otherwise.”

“Oh do you now?”

Her touch slithers downward, grasps him cheeky and knows even weak he can still get it up for her. “I do.”

He can have all of the silent moments he wishes… but she won’t rest until she has an answer — and that means neither will he.

“Oddly enough I was thinking to when we met you, Valdas and I.”

Such a fussy subject when it comes to his darling girl. Some days she enjoys thinking of the last act of her humanity to be anything but. Others… well there’s a growing concern for where exactly she’s grabbing… and how long healing might take in their current state.

So he can’t help but sigh in relief when she finally speaks.

“What brought that on?”

“Hell if I know.”

“Cyn…”

“What does it matter? It’s not as if we could go back to those times. Free of war… of pollution in blood and land. Before the forsaken fucking _Order_ took a fucking _continent_ for their own.”

 _And there it is._ Cynbel raises his chin enough to see the sparkle of knowing, of _understanding_ in her eyes. He may not be as skilled as they in the psychic arts but what he lacks there he makes up for in his memory. In all the things he’s learned and practiced… and one thing he can never forget— _will never forget_ —is the happier times. The simpler times.

“You could not have known their intention to sail to the New World. None could.”

“No… I know that.”

“Then why do you linger on it?”

“I caused the actions that led to this, did I not? Paris, my love, Paris. It put them on the Godmaker’s heels and moreover put him on those of the Colonies.”

It’s a rare kind of talk from him and Isseya knows it better than any. Has her propping herself up on splayed palms and a dark concern in her eyes still like stars…

“Remorse is not like you, Cynbel.” Her curls tickle at his cheeks.

“Think of what we could have been doing these last years. The gifts we could have given you — the ones you and I could have bestowed upon him. The wonders of the _other side of the world_ where all this… nonsensical fighting is beyond us.”

 _In Valdemaras’ name… what_ is _that look in her eyes? Frustration but… pity?_ Psychic though he may not be he knows _her._ She’s angry at him. _Why the fuck is she angry at him?_

“You spend one breath taking the blame and the next calling it all _‘nonsensical.’_ You contradict yourself, my bloodsoaked lover.”

“You know I’m better with actions than words.”

“Yet words show your true colors. Not just red… spare me the guilt, Cynbel. You feel nothing for this conflict but what it has cost us.”

Through his furrowed brow… he relents. “Yes. Yes that’s… that’s true.”

“Only it isn’t enough for you to say it. You must _mean it,_ too.”

He doesn’t have to push her further. Knows exactly what she means… But what they _both_ know is that certain things are just out of their control.

“I will,” he swears; and like pack animals they butt heads, nuzzle their noses, the intimacy of the moment temporarily granting their wish to live outside of time… outside of the things that keep them bound to all this madness, “just as I will spend the decades to come making it up to you—to Valdas—to you both.”

“Swear it.”

“I swear on my life.”

Then Isseya’s hand is in his hair, golden bright on her olive skin. She forces him to meet the same eyes that have served as the doors of death for legions. “Swear on something that _matters to you.”_

Cynbel hesitates only in that he would loathe for her hold on him to end.

“I swear on your lives. Yours, and His.”

“Again.”

“I swear on your lives.”

She leans down and licks the outer shell of his ear. Immediately takes it back with a sharp pain… Cynbel watches in rapture at the sight of her pulling back to swallow the cartilage whole.

 _“Again.”_ The Priestess of Valdemaras demands through bloodstained teeth.

As if he could ever deny her looking like that.

_“I swear on your lives.”_

* * *

_“Hey, hey here he is! Over here!”_

_“Cynbel! CYNBEL!”_

_“Help me lift this —”_

_“— HEAVE!”_

Laying there choking on ash—ash from hay, from old rotting wood, from his dead kind but not his kin—gives Cynbel a strange kind of perspective on immortality.

He’s never been a fan of self-reflection.

Relief hardens into confusion, into anger at the sight that filters through burning eyes and tears. Not the face of his beloveds but someone else. Cynbel recoils because the mere possibility of death, even a terrible death such as this, is better than what seeing a strange face as his rescuer implies.

 _Perhaps I am already dead,_ Cynbel thinks as the face laughs above him, because none other than the Devil himself would separate them, would laugh and revel in his misery. _I deserve Hell — for that I could not kiss them one final time…_

“What disappointing rumors, Old Blood!” The Devil says through pearly fangs, “that the infamous Golden Son would need rescuing by one such as I!”

The words force Cynbel to stir. Yet… why would he? Why _should_ he? Surely they are each in their own separate voids, to be cut off from one another their eternal damnation…

“Hey—hey! Come on now!” A few harsh smacks to his cheek, stinging offsetting the burn of flames under his heels. _Hadn’t he worn stockings to bed…?_

“You really gonna let your grave be a damp barn in Charlottesville, Old Blood?”

Unfortunately the Devil has a point. Always knows how best to tempt the vices of sinners.

“My… my bb-beloveds…”

“— would have my head if I walked outta this barn without you.”

_Begone, tempter. Please._

Though Cynbel can’t help but wonder where the Devil _truly_ lies this day. Is he the face above shrouded in smoke and flame, the one that hauls the smoldering remnants of a rafter off of him? Or is he the ones who tells him to turn away from the choked-out light of day and slumber deep?

No… no he has seen Hell before—

_Hell was watching them swept in a manic crowd and to an uncertain fate._

_Hell was screaming, begging through skin splitting open watching her lips whisper a silent_ “I love you, goodbye.”

_Hell was the broken will of a God who would sacrifice every ounce of his pride for his first and only loves._

No. He is Cynbel of the Riedones and he has seen Hell every time they have been beaten and broken against the hard edges of the world. He has walked through those flames and been made molten; hammered into something stronger. This fire, too, will strengthen him.

_It has to. For them._

When he reaches out there’s a hand to grab him. To help pull him and the smoldering husk of the rafter up and bat it aside.

The face of the Devil isn’t what he’d expect. But Cynbel doesn’t give himself time to linger on it — some things are a bit more pressing.

They make their way through the chaos; the air like burned molasses. When the Golden Son realizes he is the one slowing them down he only pushes himself that much harder — refuses to be left to die in _this…_ this madness.

Everything is supposed to feel better once he’s left the burning barn behind, so why does he still feel alight? Cynbel looks up and has his answer — eyes stinging the same way they did in the last moments before the mines swallowed them all up.

_Daylight._

And if he had hoped for salvation once they were clear of it, he’s sorely mistaken. It isn’t just the barn but the entire field; everything scorched as far as his watery eyes can see.

“What—” _gasping for air like he needs it, but what he needs is blood,_ “—happened?!”

The other vampire scans the smoky horizon with dark eyes narrowed.

“I don’t know. We woke up, everything aflame… the lands reeked of oil. We couldn’t even find cover in the nearby forest — whatever this was it was _planned.”_

He knows the rage that laces the man’s words. He’s felt that kind of rage — _been_ it incarnate — and were he able to he would feed from it, let it seep into his pores beautiful and righteous.

But even the thought of raising his hand to a sword saps energy from him. His rescuer will have to do.

_And if he is as weak as he is…_

But Fate doesn’t let him entertain the thought. Perhaps they know the chaos he will reign should such a thought come to pass… should it be true.

_“CYNBEL!”_

The very sound of her voice pulls him forward on a tether. He breaks away from the man, learns a little too late he doesn’t even have the strength to stand alone—

But she’s never let him fall before. She doesn’t now.

“Iss’…”

Isseya pushes the ash-covered hair from his eyes and the fire that prickles on the edges of his vision is nothing like the fire he just left behind. Cynbel’s lungs are raw but give him the blessed ability to sob in relief. They will burn out here, exposed.

And as they pull back from a kiss of peeling lips and dry tongues they share the same thought. As they always have.

They will not burn without _him._

“How did you—”

“I couldn’t —” her voice chokes in her throat, she chokes on the air, “— I was too weak. Too—too weak and…”

She’d fled for help. Even now, especially now, it pains her to admit weakness. His unbreakable darling girl… And she thinks she has to look away, to shed her tears alone?

Their second kiss is harder; more a demand of her. They have demanded so much of one another. To die, to live… to be…

“We must find him.”

“We cannot— not alone.”

But the vampires at her back, stragglers relying on luck as a means to an end? They aren’t worth the time to waste.

Isseya looks over Cynbel’s shoulder, barks an unfamiliar name like an order—like the General she should have been. _“Ambrose!”_

Cynbel watches as his rescuer turns with a grim face. He recognizes the man, then. How the smoke reminds him of the ash from earlier that night. The leader of the ceremony.

Ambrose waves away a scout and approaches. “You should find shelter before you take to the sun, the both of you.”

“We will do nothing without our own.”

“Not even die, apparently.” Before he can continue there’s a whistle; through the haze they can see the swish of horse tails, the creatures riled and desperate to escape the oncoming blaze but held tight by the vampires clutching at their reins.

Ambrose shakes his head; makes to leave them to their own devices. “Your choices are your own. I have no time to argue with Old Blood! Not when there are others who need me.”

 _“Ambrose, quickly!”_ calls one, heaving himself on one of the load-bearing steeds, _“The fire’s took up the main house and the well is emptied! We’re wastin’ time!”_

The Trinity reach as one — weak as they are but still stronger than the likes of these. Grasp with the weight of ages and bear down on the man before he can take flight.

“What are you—let go of me!”

Cynbel snarls with bared fangs.

“What _house?!”_

But they already know, don’t they? _They already know._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every ‘part’ in this book has a main point/theme that ties to the Trinity themselves or a different book and their role in it. This one is a bit ambiguous but I’m eager to see who can kind of suss it out. I’m also excited to finally introduce Ambrose! As always, comments and critique would be fabulous. Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy part III!


	8. III.ii. The Children of the Made-God

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That's the problem; the world would rather judge them than seek to understand them. Their love was never about sacrifice. It has always been about survival.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **chapter content warnings:** violence, grief, language, blood, death, gore, cannibalism, behavior that can be seen as obsessive

The sun peeks through plumes of thicker smoke hot at his back. Hot as the gluttonous flames that devour the manor; ravenous and with enough awareness of mind to lick their plates clean.

All this heat and yet he is cold. A glacier unrelenting. Chipped away from the mainland and forced out to a sea of lava. Bubbling, boiling, blistering.

_Broken._

He is the warrior but she has always been the stronger of Valdemaras’ children. She was born in carnage and supplication to a higher death; with the torn flesh of her enemies between bared teeth as they grew long and unyielding — he was born in the ecstasy of understanding, of being known and knowing in return and of finding a singular answer to all of the questions he never knew he needed to ask.

No one else knows this. No one but the one who brought them into this world so different, so unique… but with the same blood pumping rabid through their hearts.

No one else knows this. No one.

“Let me go!”

“You’re hysterical! Cease this madness!”

“Isseya I will burn you myself _let. me. go!”_

_“I cannot lose you, too!”_

The animal of howling anguish he has become — Cynbel stops to turn to her, only able to think of the words that dared poison his lips even if only for a moment. The thought never there, never — never.

But the fire continues to exist. Cares not whether their eyes of desperate mourning are upon it and continues on. A load-bearing column wavers and falls; kicks up a fresh cloud of glowing embers and smoke up to the sky and sends the husk of wall nearby with it.

He looks back in time for the embers to dig into his eyes like little claws. But the tears that come aren’t by their touch. Not at all.

“HH—He…” Words — what fucking useless things. Irrelevant, fucking impossible. They’re never full enough, strong enough… never just _enough._

They would waste their lives for his. Oh they would. Their God’s first and final gift and they would soak the ground with it so wet so nothing could burn there ever again. Would build a temple befitting his honor towering so high in the sky it alone would block out the sun.

“I don’t…” she splutters wet with tears, they’re falling at a rate so fast he can’t wipe them fast enough, “Cyn—h-he can’t be—I…”

_Imagine a world without him?_

Neither can he.

Nothing could have survived such a blaze. That much is certain.

Though there are some that have never put much stock in certainty. The figure that emerges from the crumbling half-ruins of the front threshold being one of them.

They rally her name in a bolstering cry. _“Sayeed! General Sayeed!”_ As though she is their savior. For some of them she perhaps is; the picture of the old goddess Hel wreathed in ruinous wreckage.

 _She_ is _their savior,_ he thinks — and is made vengeful for it.

Something writhes in her arms but her grip is one of ages. _Well-fed ages,_ too. She approaches and all gather to meet her. Some in praise, some in awe. Cynbel and Isseya — they are caught in a limbo of their own making and only follow because there is nothing else left.

Kamilah tosses her burden onto the grass gracelessly. The face that looks back up at the enclave of vampires is bloody and bruised; a gaping hole reeking of burning flesh where one eye was supposed to be.

The servant boy from the dinner cowers in fright. Because that is all mortals are good for in the end. Blood… and _fear._

A boot comes down upon the child’s throat and everyone revels in the _creak_ of youthful bones before they snap.

 _“All you have risked in their name… and they abandon you to die in their chaos.”_ Never in his life has Cynbel been _glad_ to take in the towering sight of the Godmaker, nor is he now. But feeling anger is better than feeling a void. 

Gaius’ burned features heal with every word hissed through clenched teeth. _Angry, wrathful._ “Your loyalty would have been far better rewarded had you made the smart decision not to cross me. But here we are.”

All around them — the faces of strangers. Of a Godmaker and Bloodqueen but none of them _him._

Bravery is only brave without the fear that wracks through the feeble mortal. Ready to be ripped limb from limb for the barest scraps of blood and marrow by a starving pack of wolves. But to spit in the face of the Godmaker… that’s just stupidity.

And with Evil’s boot on his throat he intends for his last words to be damnable, perhaps. “Demons from Hell! Let God’s light and holy fire cast you away!”

So much hatred in such a small vessel.

Not that it was ever in doubt this was an attack orchestrated by the Order. But something so large scale…

There are jeers from all around to kill the whelp. To do things Cynbel has done, would do again if it brought him back to them… Distantly he notices a dark-figured silence in the form of Ambrose, watching not the satisfaction that curls in the smirk on the Godmaker’s lips but the way the creature seals his fate. The way he tries to squirm for freedom.

 _Snap._ Technically he brings about his own demise. Writhes so hard in some deluded dream of freedom that all the Godmaker has to do is press down his littlest toe. The look that passes between King and Queen isn’t missed — yet still he reaches out and smooths the soot out of her furrowed brow.

The sight of it feels like dying.

“Where is he?”

Nothing but silence and the crackling of leftover fire. Cynbel swears he can hear his words echoing off the trees.

Augustine lets out a snorting breath. They know him too well — know something passes in his bright eyes hidden by blood-slicked hair before he pushes it back. “I don’t have time for your whining.”

“Make time!”

Not a step forward, then there’s a hand on his chest. Forceful and sure, but younger.

Kamilah’s eyes are long past burning. The storm gathers inside her, ready to douse the inferno. “Cynbel,” she hisses, “do not. You’re a fool if you even think you could.”

He bats her hand away. “Don’t you dare, _girl,_ don’t you _dare!”_

But he’s too weak. Both of them are; it takes little effort for the Bloodqueen to force what’s left of the Trinity on their knees. Blood trickles from the corner of Isseya’s mouth — she would rather bleed out than cry out.

With her back turned from her Maker and King, Kamilah looks down at the pair of them with warning. _Don’t do this, not here._ But fuck — what else can they lose? What is it to be whole and lose the entirety of it?

That kind of love… 

He shouts through Kamilah’s raised arm and meets the Godmaker’s eyes even from this place of weakness.

“Where is Valdemaras?!”

“You dare _demand_ of me…”

“Bullshit—I refuse to believe you and your bitch —” he spits at her feet for good measure and the act earns him five deep wounds to the face, wounds that will heal in time but he almost wishes they would not, “— were the only survivors!”

He’s a spectacle of his own making. Both of them looked upon with younger eyes; ignorant. Ones who couldn’t possibly fathom the depth of their years, of the emotions threatening to tear him apart until he, too, is ash. _They don’t know what we’ve done to get this far. They never will._

Except for perhaps Kamilah though she, too, is made less kind.

“They attacked at dawn. Knew the depths of the compound… of everything.” She speaks soft and all the while his blood drips from her fingertips. “Without warning there was… there was nothing that could be done.”

“Not that you would _try.”_ Isseya hisses. They fumble blind in the growing light for one another’s hands.

_Two thousand years up in smoke._

Gaius takes his sweet time approaching them. Revels in their grief, no doubt. All his parading about caring for _his people_ yet they have always seen themselves as different, haven’t they?

He grabs Cynbel’s chin and forces him to look upward. It feels as though even the flames still around them. Not that it stops the Golden Son from trying again; even if it is in vain.

“How did _you_ survive… and he…”

 _Because I am stronger. Because I am smarter. Because I am better._ The Godmaker could say all of these things and more. Could behead them for their insolence and none, not even Sayeed, would raise a hand to stop him.

Cynbel braces himself for the onslaught… that never comes.

Gaius releases him, lets his hand fall down and because the Trinity know better they won’t call the look in his eyes _remorseful_ so much as _mockery._

“The man who stands upon your slumbering bedside with shackles does not intend to kill you. No, that is the man who holds the torch.”

He sees the grieving lovers, the words so ready to spill from their tongues, and stops them with a simple gesture. A finger over his own lips, a _“ssshh…”_ that does not ask for silence but demands it. “Your lover, my ill-minded progeny — he refused my every attempt to feed him this night. _‘Not without them,’_ he said—the fool. No doubt he was as starved as yourselves, as _weak._

“Hunger can make easy prey of even the proudest of predators… as you well know.”

Isseya squeezes his hand. Were he to look over he’s sure he would see the same look reflected back at him.

Instead she’s fixated on Augustine. “The Order isn’t the type to take prisoners.” _Prisoners are worth keeping. The Order would see them all burned._

It dawns on Cynbel, then. Spine rigid and eyes sweeping across the lawn, the road leading back to the heart of town and further; to the trees and their singed cover that would do them no good when the breeze decided to toy with their lives.

_The Order would see them all burned… yet does not. They flee—cowards—back to where they think they are safe._

This revelation of Cynbel’s is something the Godmaker already knows.

“They took him.” Cynbel breathes.

Gaius nods. “Likely, else you must not have thought very much of him all these years—that you would survive and he would not. Valdemaras… he is as crafty as he is defiant.”

“You know where.”

“I have an inkling. Close enough for them to take advantage of such a window of opportunity.”

There are still so many questions. The ebb and flow of emotions on his weakened state has Cynbel in a fit, has him doubting every word he speaks, every one he hears. _He is gone. The Devil wears so many faces…_

And that his darling girl, his beloved Isseya chooses then to hold him tighter can’t be anything less than a sign.

Enough to bring Cynbel from his knees. To pull Isseya up beside him and hold her tight lest she, too, disappear from him on the fading smoke.

Gaius laughs at the sight of them. “I never understood his fascination with you two. But I’ll give him this — he knows how to make them loyal.”

All it takes is one glance to Sayeed behind him, the look in her eyes strange and foreign on her expression usually so calm and sure, for Cynbel to bite his tongue.

“Tell us,” only his darling could ever make a plea sound so strong, “please, Godmaker. We’ve done all that you asked —”

“And you will continue to do so. But I am… fond of Valdemaras. He should prove useful in the days to come.”

The Godmaker surveys them as a farmer might his stock. His next words almost an afterthought; “All of you should.”

It is an undertaking for them and them alone, the Trinity understands that. And though every moment spent breathing is one breath that may be their lover’s last to rush into it would be suicide. And he’ll be damned before he lets his death be at the hands of some worthless Order bastard playing soldier.

Charlottesville has finished burning. But the screams of her people last well into the night. They don’t stop for the setting sun or the moon and her stars. In fact they only get worse.

He drinks for strength and nothing more — unable to take enjoyment even in the way the young man’s body slumps to the ground, twitches like a fish out of a pond, and is still.

He’s barely had the time to wipe the remains of his meal from his chin when two pairs of boots come into his field of vision. Looks up just in time for Sayeed to toss a sheave of paper at his lap. He just barely catches it without letting the contents spill onto the blood-soaked dirt.

“Just when I thought you couldn’t get any more foolish.”

Cynbel barks a laugh and directs his sneer to the pages rather than the woman herself. “Just you wait, little lotus. You’ve not seen the depths of my stupidity…”

The eyes that finally meet hers are red of hellfire, of blood and fury.

“Especially when it comes to my Lord and Light.”

Ambrose beside her looks as if to say something but thinks better of it and resigns himself to watching. They are an unusual pair, Cynbel knows. But how else does one describe two thousand years of finding middle ground on opposite sides?

 _Unusual_ is about the only word that could even breach the depth of them.

He sighs and holds up the folder, ash smearing over his skin at burned edges. “What is this?”

“A peace offering.”

 _“Peace, in times of war?”_ The weight on Cynbel’s heart is immediately lessened at the sound of Isseya’s voice — she approaches around the stocky build of their unwelcome voyeur and clings to her lover just as ardently. “Cut the shit.”

Kamilah’s teeth grind in her jaw.

“On this rare occasion, Trinity, you and I desire the same thing. With the safe return of your Maker you will, I hope, follow in the pattern you always have at the slightest sign of trouble.”

They raise eyebrows at her and Kamilah continues, convicted; “You will _leave.”_

“Virginia, oh yes.”

“No,” Kamilah shakes her head, “not just Virginia. In your hands you hold all that my King has gathered on the Order’s operations… I trust I don’t have to warn you they are likely to be more armed than the reports give.”

Isseya takes the papers and shuffles through them. Names of scouts, soldiers tabbed in Sayeed’s careful script along the edges. Cynbel stops at one marked ‘RAINES’ and pulls it free from the stack with one word holding him spellbound.

_Shackles._

“The Godmaker mentioned shackles — did he mean this?”

There’s a grim moment where she almost looks as though she will not answer. “Perhaps,” she says finally.

The sketch is rudimentary but the notes around it are neat and tidy. It’s been ages since he’s actually _read_ anything; something Cynbel hadn’t realized until just then.

What? He’s always been better with tongues than words.

But is Sayeed really only going to give them _half_ of a gesture? Apparently his face is transparent; the sight of it deepens the furrow in the woman’s brow.

“I will tell you the rest.”

Isseya waves her off. “Yes yes, we know how this goes. _‘In exchange for,’_ and all that. What do you want?”

“Your word.”

She asks for one but those two press down on their already so fucking heavy shoulders. Make the Trinity—a word that means three… are they even still such when only two remain?

Her lips on his neck don’t ease either of their burdens but, as always, her touch is enough. It isn’t hunger that makes him weak enough to grasp onto some—any—part of her… but sometimes weakness is just weakness.

“Your word,” Kamilah continues, “that you _will_ tuck your tails and run the moment you are reunited.”

Which — he’s very much in favor for. But that isn’t Cynbel’s decision to make. “It was the Godmaker who sent for us. Who made us stay to fight his battles for him, payment for…”

He can’t seem to say the words. Lucky the Bloodqueen understands.

“And anyway — he will hunt us down if we break our word now.” Isseya raises a good point, yet Cynbel keeps his selfish protest inside his chest. _If we break our word now everything will have meant nothing._

“Leave Gaius to me.”

“Mmm.”

“Enough of this. You want to leave and you are being given a free chance to do so. Why not take it?”

“Nothing with the Godmaker is ever free.”

Rather than continue to argue her rather her rather strange case Kamilah just extends a hand. Notices his reluctance only in that the last time they shook on anything Cynbel had been left with one less hand to hold. _Ah, Columbia. Good times._ Better than these.

But it’s always Valdas who makes these choices; who has a right to decide for the three of them. He is their God, their Maker, their guide. Who ferried them from one world into the next and… and he just isn’t that man. Could never be — he could never be…

And thanks to their beloved Valdemaras. For bringing Isseya into his life then so she could be here for him now. A decision made together to assuage the guilt.

Cynbel and Kamilah shake on it. He tries to contain his look of surprise when he pulls back the same number of fingers he’d offered.

He’ll hold up his end of the bargain. So she holds up hers.

“It wasn’t supposed to get this far. There wasn’t supposed to be a _war.”_ And she’s right. He still remembers Valdas’ honeyed words that got him to agree to this shit in the first place. All of them resting on one thing.

_This would be simple. It would be fun. It would take no time at all._

“And for a while things were in our favor. We had decades of resources, we had information, we even had the numbers. But they were like…” she shudders an exhale, “they were like dominoes. First the numbers fell. A fluke — luck to keep a cosmic balance. Turning to bolster our own worked in the beginning. But with each line branching off into the next the blood became… diluted.

“It was a risk worth taking. Until it wasn’t. Put a dozen soldiers in the ground and only two of them would wake up sound of mind. There was a small outbreak—an uncontrolled and unsanctioned Turning…”

Kamilah trails off, the stoic figure beside her takes up the mantle with astonishing gravitas. “My men and I put down just over twenty Ferals across Indiana. Countless more casualties in our wake, then the humans started blamin’ each other for the killin’s. We had to let it rest or the Order’s doctrine would become all but gospel.”

“Unless the next part of your _story_ has anything to do with either one of you taking up blacksmithing, perhaps we should be moving on.” While Isseya glowers at the pair they’ve already lost Cynbel. His focus is back on the page in hand — trying to catch the whispers of a memory dredged up by a sigil traced at the corner.

Kamilah’s nostrils flare. Ambrose chooses to keep the peace. “Well — see — at the beginnin’ of the year it was quiet, a little too quiet. Found out then about a little excavation the Order had goin’ ‘round near old Salem.”

“Hypocritical bastard.”

Cynbel launches the folder carelessly and the papers within begin to scatter on the dead evening air. Isseya, knocked back by his outburst, looks ready to snap his neck for the trouble. But when she realizes it isn’t a tantrum, that true distress wracks through him violently, she just… holds on.

“What’s with you, beloved…?”

“A series of cursed objects were made for the trials that took place there. One man by the name of Corwin, the leader of the hunters and a member of the Order — we discovered this much later, too late perhaps. He led the witch hunts and needled out from the masses those with a true affinity for the craft.

“Corwin promised that should the witches create for him a series of tools and weapons for the Order’s crusade then they would be spared.”

She doesn’t have to say the rest. The implications are clear enough.

Isseya can’t help her disgust. “They preach of cleansing humanity in one breath and further themselves with witchcraft in another. Actually — can’t fathom why I’m even surprised.”

But despite what they now know their minds haven’t changed. Kamilah sees this and knows it to be true.

The surprised one between them is the New Blood, Ambrose. He looks between the vampires and though he’s come to understand the language of their silent gazes he can’t seem to believe his eyes.

“You still intend to go after your Maker?”

Foolish for him to even ask.

There’s a new rigidity to the man’s spine as he inhales — looks at Kamilah with all the respect of a soldier to his general. “Then allow me to accompany them — allow me to bring my men to fight at their backs.”

“We have no use for cannon fodder.”

Even Kamilah tries to stifle some aged amusement; a _knowing_ the youngest among them does not yet covet. “Your intentions are noble, Ambrose, but you and your men are best served here. Should the Order attack again —”

“Will their mission not ensure there _won’t_ be another attack?” And though he raises a fair point Cynbel still can’t believe his eyes when Sayeed actually _considers_ his proposal.

His darling’s growls rumble deep in Cynbel’s bones. “Your pity will earn you no honor.”

“‘Tis not pity, milady,” dark eyes level on those of the Trinity open, honest; a strangeness neither of them are familiar with outside of their own covenant, “but another life lost to the Order — especially one so highly praised between Old Blood like yourselves — is another victory I will not abide. _‘The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men should do nothing.’”_

Isseya’s doubt and disregard claw at him, make his new skin still pinkish in its rawness itch uncomfortably. Wordlessly Cynbel reaches back and cards his fingers through her hair. Comfort found as much as it is given.

“Better to have cannon fodder than to be confronted without it, my beloved.”

He seals her protests with his lips; swallows them down greedy and reminds her with every twist of his tongue that they do this for something far more important than they. They do this for _Him._

But he has the decency to wait until he feels the yield of her under his fingertips. Pressed-together foreheads and meals not shared but tasted against the familiarity of two thousand years.

Cynbel regards Ambrose… and nods.

Though her ‘peace offering’ has found its way across the packed earthen floor and in a few cases fluttering out glasses windows, Sayeed seems contented with the outcome. She rests a hand on Ambrose’s shoulder and finds the gesture returned. “On your own head be it.”

But, truly, no threat seems to deter him. “May the light of the First guide us.” So focused on his own altruism, he misses the recoiling shudder of the Trinity.

Kamilah takes her leave of them — one last look to Cynbel like fresh ink on a contract. She has upheld her end… and will ensure he does the same.

“Be ready come midnight, the absent will be left behind.” Already Cynbel allows the tension to ease out of him at Isseya’s touch. The way she clings to him — not _desperately_ but with just as much intention in the matter.

“Of course.”

Cynbel makes sure to wait until the man is several strides gone before calling back. “Oh, and — Ambrose, was it?” Balancing the scales of power even now to make the man turn back to them. “Leave your _First_ shit among your belongings here. Salvation does not come in those who pray on bended knee even as the sword comes down upon their necks. The only person who can give you precious _salvation_ is you.”

An entire sermon goes unspoken across Ambrose’s hard-worn frown. “It was merely a prayer to faith.”

“We are of a different faith.”

“Which would that be?”

He doesn’t deign to answer. Dismisses the man instead by turning bodily from him and allowing himself to fully embrace her — to try and touch her as though she is not all he has left in the world. He can feel her struggling with the same mindset with every kiss, every caress.

_As He delivered them from their mortal confines they, too, will deliver Him from the hands of the Order. And if they are too late…_

No gods, martyrs, saints will keep them safe. Not the Order, not the Godmaker, not even Sayeed. And dear Ambrose will learn the hard way that his precious _First_ will never come. No matter how hard he screams at the end.

* * *

The Order will expect retaliation to come when their enemies are safest. So they plan their strike for midday.

Three of the twelve men that make up Ambrose’s brigade back out before they can say another word. They look to their leader for permission but he stays silent — and fools that they are the men take silence as permission.

Cynbel and Isseya watch as, with an almost imperceptible nod, three of their brothers-in-arms take aim and fire on the mens’ backs at thirty paces. Thirty, he knows, because he counts each step they take before they are beheaded with their own sabers.

It makes the Golden Son look at the New Blood with different eyes. A sight Ambrose must notice even if he doesn’t look away from the ritual of execution. “There’s no place in my men for cowards,” is his only explanation. It’s more than enough.

One of the few humans left in town—who takes that he has not yet been devoured as a sign that some night he might join their ranks, the fool—agrees to drive their caravan. The winds taste of an early winter and have blown away the smoke up high in favor of a bleak, almost colorless day.

Isseya leans over and whispers in his ear; “Does the world really look like that, or is it that no beauty is worth finding without Him?” Whispered as though she’s afraid saying it will make her day-mares come true. He doesn’t answer with words — throws an arm over her shoulders and pulls her in tight so that she may feel the tremors that wrack him still.

So that she may know her fear is not a sole burden to bear.

If they had the tools, the resources, the _time_ to prepare they would. This is not something they undertake lightly — this life that means more to them than their own shouldn’t be left up to chance. But they don’t. No time to scout, no time to strategize.

A thought that has Cynbel wheezing a laugh while hunched over the woefully barren map of where the Order might have based their operations.

The pair of boots at the edges of his vision shuffle, unwittingly drawing his attention up to Ambrose’s carefully-masked confusion.

“Indeed even in this slop I know my beauty is striking — but if it hasn’t yet dawned on you, New Blood, I am spoken for.”

Ambrose’s gall is quickly smothered at the sight of Cynbel’s lips; barely tugging at the edges. _The only smile he will ever grace again,_ says that fear the Trinity shares, but he ignores it.

“Such a terrible tragedy, I’m sure. But you’re not exactly my type.”

“Men?” He scoffs. “Give it a century or two.”

“No, not men.”

He doesn’t respond until Cynbel meets his gaze fully. Impressive man… he’ll give credit where (and when) it is due. “Then…?”

“Self-servin’ and more than a tad off your rocker.”

Point the second for the New Blood. Fascinating. And not entirely wrong.

Cynbel goes back to his map. Ambrose leans back against the rattling caravan beam and closes his eyes.

“I was thinking of the risks involved here. And what he would say if he could see me here lamenting over a plan.” Outside they can hear the pacing a mile off — Cynbel would know the sounds of Isseya’s waif-play anywhere. Whatever it takes to get them food before they strike.

“I should be grateful for the opportunity to forgo the rigidities of war. All this _officers_ and _commanders_ and _following orders_ horse-shit. I should be reveling in the chance to do this my way.”

“An’ what way would that be?”

“The way of the hunter. Knowing only what will ensure your survival. Passion in the kill… in the feed.”

“Doesn’t sound like a very informed way to go into battle.”

 _Perish the thought._ “Battle used to be an intimate thing. Death must come by the might of your own hand or not at all. And my hands have caused so much death.” Cynbel’s damnable voice cracks against his permission. “Yet he always treated them with such care; such reverence. As though I was made of glass.”

He doesn’t know if the other man stays silent on purpose or not — but he appreciates it nonetheless. Under normal circumstances he would only allow Isseya to see him so vulnerable. Surely she will forgive him this trespass, for these are not normal circumstances.

The smell of fresh blood is much closer when the new blood finally speaks again.

“This Maker of yours must be somethin’ special to inspire that kind’a loyalty.” And it’s a testament to how far this war has made them fall, isn’t it.

He could hold courts, give lectures, preach to the craven masses over the divine beauty of his lover and God. He has done, actually. A long time ago and an ocean away… Why is it now that words fail him?

_Must be the hunger._

“You never knew your Maker, did you Ambrose?” asks Cynbel, but such a statement is telling — he already knows the answer.

“No, I didn’t. Can’t even put a face to ‘em.”

“Such a shame.”

“Why’s that?”

His fingers drift absently to his shoulder. To where Isseya usually rests like a perch — to the skin under his touch where his devotion was burned into him with fire and brimstone.

“A shame that you will never know the fulfillment that comes with that bond. I mean no offense —” he smirks at Ambrose’s immediately skeptical furrowed brow, “— I know, I’m just as surprised as you. But I would say such to any of our kind orphaned from the start. Isseya, my darling, she was blessed to have our Divinity and myself as guides. Before her — I know with certainty I would not have survived this long had the hand that pulled me into life not been the same one that felled me.

“Look to Augustine and Sayeed. I may wish to smear the Godmaker’s ashes across the known world but even I will not deny the strength of their connection. It has kept them alive for all this time at the very least. The sigils our Makers give us bind our minds to our bodies, yes, but they also serve a higher purpose.”

Fascinating then; the way something close to captivation changes so quickly. Not even hidden — no trace of it left on the suddenly worn, suddenly tired lines that tell but a drop of Ambrose’s vast story.

“Call ‘em what they are, Old Blood. They’re brands. And no way was I spendin’ my new life the way I spent my old one.”

It’s enough to pique Cynbel’s interest further.

“You weren’t marked after you Turned?”

“No.”

“How long ago?”

“Goin’ on twenty five years,” he raises his chin with much-deserved pride, “I’d like to think I’m proof a good, strong will is enough to do it. To keep you sane.”

In the Golden Son’s chest stirs an unfamiliar emotion — the only comparison he can muster being that of the sight of his lovers victorious. _Respect, perhaps?_

“I…” he doesn’t need preternatural hearing to catch Isseya’s growls of ill-content approaching the caravan; how easily he could let his words die—let the feeling die with it… and how strange that he does not.

“I cannot say I would have shown the same strength.”

Not a moment later one of the woven flaps is pushed aside to reveal Isseya in the closest thing she will ever allow to be called shambles; hair usually so carefully tucked away hanging in inky strings in front of her eyes or plastered in sweat on her brow, the hunt burning outward from her soul in crimson eyes and the fresh kill on her breath.

She sits beside Cynbel and immediately Ambrose and the map are things forgotten in her presence. He pulls the cap from her and makes careful work of combing her hair with his nails. She appreciates the gesture, says so in her half-smile, but they both know there is so little time for these moments.

_After all, they may very well have only those moments left if they are too late._

“Go,” she pushes him back by the chest; urges her lover to stand and take his turn, “the pickings were scarce — you’re lucky I was able to stop myself.” Then, because she knows he will ask, she holds up a hand to stop their company before Ambrose can even open his mouth.

“Better to share than to have nothing.”

“You learn to take what you can get in times like these.”

She hums. “Indeed… they’ll be along shortly. New Blood could hardly keep up.”

The lovers reach out together. Take hands together and lock eyes together. Find comfort in one another together.

Cynbel turns and departs the caravan alone.

* * *

Augustine’s scouts were only half-right. Much like the Shadow King and his occupied town of human-chattel to ensure things were kept neat and tidy—or seemingly so—to the governors at the capital, the Order too has kept up appearances of some form or another.

It’s a small farming community — much like the outskirts of Charlottesville in barns dotted on the midday horizon. The one closest to the tree line is burned down, Cynbel notes. The trial run for their surprise attack no doubt.

And perhaps a more skeptical man would assume the children that run over the roads to the love of their mother’s skirts were no mere innocents — that they, too, were a part of the Order of the Dawn’s grand scheme to rid America of their kind. That every hobbling crone and well-bred young man is there because they choose to be; because they believe in the cause.

But Cynbel knows them too well to give in to paranoia.

One of Ambrose’s men, one who played executioner on his blood brother, makes the mistake of questioning that knowledge.

“I come from a town like this myself,” he says, “I know how deep the roots of faith go in these kinds’a places. Maybe… I mean maybe you’re rushin’ into this.”

Isseya’s hand twitches just shy of her lover’s. He holds her back only in that he will demand understanding of the fool before she strikes.

He leans in close and whispers low — for a moment Ambrose looks as if to pull the young man back; suspicion for the Trinity and their intentions clear even in the caravan’s shadow.

But the look passes, gone as quickly as it came.

He could grow to like this one.

“Are you suggesting that their faith is stronger?”

The creature pales; begins to understand what he’s done — and that he only has himself to blame. “No—no I —”

“Correct.” Not even at their full strength and his beloved is still faster, still _better._ Rounds upon him with the same hands that forced pagans to weep blood, to behold their God until it killed them. “What have they, Cynbel, numbers?”

She smirks up at him and for a moment all this suffering is undone. They are back in the halls of Versailles, the temples of Jaipur, the battlefields of the Old Days.

“Perhaps,” he nods to answer.

Her nails dig through the thick wool of the vampire’s uniform. Blood begins to bloom through the dark grey fabric. “What have they, Cynbel, weapons?”

“Perhaps,” he repeats.

“What have they, Cynbel, _conviction?”_ If the fool were to scream all would be lost — their position discovered and their plan ruined before it could even begin. Though he might find screaming _properly_ a difficult task as he watches in horror— _not Cynbel, no, his eyes shine nothing short of worshipful_ —while Isseya swallows the meat of his tongue.

Let not her pretty face deceive… Isseya of the Veneti is the creature that judges all souls at the end.

Isseya smiles bloodstained, vicious; victorious.

“Let them turn to their God — we were here first. The Made-God Valdemaras with dominion over death-into-rebirth had altars drowned in the blood of his supplicants.”

Cynbel raises his chin with pride. Pride at their Divinity, pride at her ferocity. “Blood we spilled — his progeny, his lovers.”

She takes his ear next. Fleshy and red but Cynbel swears he can hear the _crunch_ when her teeth come together.

The remaining battalion witness in silent horror. _This is how his Priestess should always be revered._

“We don’t need _numbers_ — for each body is an army unto itself. Strong, swift, one mouth gorging on an army’s feast.” His other ear she takes too — spits it to the wagon base at his boots. “We don’t need _weapons — we are the weapons!”_

 _Don’t play with your food,_ Valdas used to tell her under harvest moons and cloudless skies with the entire universe laid bare as their bodies. He would guide her; show her to feed with grace. And when his back was turned Isseya would continue to tear and mutilate with those bright eyes staring right at Cynbel. Daring him to keep her secret. Something only _they_ could share.

He did. He has… all this time.

Going for the throat is the end of the game for their kind; same as the heart. The moment her righteous hand plunges through the front of him, palm open as a red flower blossoming, he has only moments until… _poof._

“As for conviction…” The priestess’ voice softens. She watches her fingers drip blood as if in a trance… as if she doesn’t quite know the hand belongs to her. “We have two thousand years’ worth of conviction. Fuck their Almighty, and fuck your First Vampire. I choose to believe in a God who walks beside me. Who will answer when I call.”

The cloud of ash that follows her words plumes against the floorboards. Sticks to her wet hand and turns that beautiful flower into the gore that it truly is. Isseya holds them all under her thrall as she brings two fingers to her lips and sucks the fallen from them. But she only has eyes for Cynbel.

Valdas _must_ be alive, he’s sure of it. Hell could not stand to suffer her wrath if it were otherwise.

“Anyone else hesitant?” Cynbel asks when he finally recovers himself. And all around him come varied degrees of submissiveness. Well… all but from Ambrose — but he will take the compliance in inaction.

Had they the time he would praise her, exalt her even. But there will be time for that later. There must be.

The smart thing to do would have been to wait until the night. But fortune lies with them as clouds gather overhead — not enough to blacken the sun but enough to burn, not kill.

Their driver gets them as close as he can. Cynbel pays him a broken neck as thanks.

He demands a handful of Ambrose’s men to go first. They look to their leader for guidance but he has remained uncharacteristically silent. But they have seen the lengths the Trinity will go to now and make the smart decision not to earn their ire.

Ambrose moves as if to join them. Cynbel darts a hand out against his chest — holds him back for reasons his mind has yet to even tell his body.

Luckily Isseya knows his body better than any. “Noble for an officer to join his underlings in battle. But there is no need for it here.” The blade she draws is, like her mistress, stained with the blood of their enemies.

“They’re my men. How can I expect them to go where I would not lead?”

“Cannon fodder goes first.” There’s a glee to her words that leaves Ambrose paling even as the rest pour out to spread their wrath. He glares at Cynbel with eyes of red wrath. The Golden Son backhands him for good measure.

“You’re sending them out there without any artillery!”

The Trinity exchange amused looks. Cynbel reaches out — cares little for how the other man flinches at even the possibility of his touch — and pats his cheek like a scolded babe.

“Have you ever seen what _really_ happens to us in the sunlight?”

“Come, come!” Isseya cackles, delighted, and rushes out in a blur of motion to witness carnage on both sides.

Admittedly he’s a little disappointed the first one combusts before they clear the caravan. But just as he shoves Ambrose into the day—following close behind—a second catches flame right before their very eyes. _Cannon fodder,_ indeed.

If the soldier has any thoughts of arguing they’re dashed as soon as he sees the satisfaction in Cynbel’s eyes. “You insisted,” he reminds Ambrose, and of course he had taken advantage of the only weapons available to him.

His satisfaction is short-lived as the sun takes its hold on him. Smoke hissing along his skin, a thousand daggers as he turns his head up to bask in the glory of it.

Panic has taken hold of the disposable soldiers. The thing about catching fire is _it fucking hurts_ and tends to inspire irrational acts. Why else would they have kept it from them? They scatter across the wooden cabins on every side and run as blurs of burning flesh to the fields of wheat and cotton around. An endlessly burning sea.

 _See how it feels._ This is but a day in the century of suffering he will inflict upon each and every soul. _There are no innocents here._

“Rrragh!” A man comes running out from around a burning cabin with a gardening scythe above his head and a death wish written all over his fearful face. Cynbel spares him little effort; grasps his scrawny face in a single wide palm and twists it backwards so he doesn’t have to look at it.

Two burning vampires fall upon a woman before her crossbow can take proper aim. All these years later and the Order still sticks to the classics. It’s almost nostalgic.

Then her hand is in his — fascinating, really, the numbing quality of a lover’s touch. She cannot take his pain away, as he cannot take hers. But together it is easier to endure. That’s love though, isn’t it.

Every place the Order has hidden has one constant; the one thing Cynbel was sure of even when all else remained uncertain.

The church is a tiny thing, but well-maintained. Where every else building was falling to disrepair this chapel smells of fresh paint; the garden lining the entrance well-cared for and loved.

How terribly predictable the faithful were.

The lovers rest their free hands on either door; turn to look at one another in the light and she, too, holds back tears in her eyes. Tears of loss, of love, of the pain that is no longer content to prick at them and now seeks to peel their flesh from their bones.

They rip the doors from their hinges and enter.

* * *

The bulk of the Order’s soldiers stand before them. Weapons drawn, faces grim, determined; resolute. Back in the old days armor was worn in place of silly cloth uniforms — but Cynbel will admit he rather enjoys that the fools haven’t found a suitable replacement for helmets. He enjoys watching their faces while they scream.

His gaze sweeps across the enemy fierce and takes in the now-familiar symbol that rests like a false guardian over their breasts. The embroidered _fleur-de-lis_ as persistent as those who wear it. But beside the golden threads he comes to recognize with no small amount of surprise the patchwork they create as a united front. A quilt of officers, commanders; those who have taken it upon themselves to stitch a count of their kills on arms and collars. The Order’s finest all gathered in one place.

Yet they must be, too, the Order’s most foolish. For they face their enemy as one and turn their backs to the true evil they hold captive at the pulpit.

The very sight of Valdas again is a relief that cannot be put into words. His head hangs weak, gaping wounds across his bared flesh trying desperately to close themselves — but he’s too drained. He’s just left there, bound in a wooden chair with rusted shackles, looking like his skin is _alive_ and breathing.

The relief passes and the void left is quickly filled with rage, ferocity. Isseya’s hand clenches his hard enough to break bone and may very well do so but nothing so simple as his own agony would stop them now.

 _“See,”_ barks one with a collar littered in crimson thread, _“told you some’d be fools enough to come!”_

Around them come murmurs of agreement, the clicking of wooden bolts being pulled back into place on crossbow springs, sabers drawn and the smell of gunpowder freshly packed.

Cynbel inhales it deeply. Doesn’t scent _nearly_ enough fear in the air but give it time… give it time.

“The only fools I see are the mortals who court death so readily.”

Valdas’ head snaps up at the sound of Isseya’s voice; seeks them across the room with the fire that claimed him trapped in his eyes. “You should not be here,” he growls — struggles against the shackles that bind him to a simple wooden chair seemingly in vain.

But his lovers know better — know their Lord and Light does nothing without divine intention. The smell of his burning flesh assaults Cynbel’s nose but the more they know in these few precious moments of stillness the better.

“What, not having any fun?” Cynbel calls with a half-hearted chuckle; knows he will pay for it later — when they are far from this place.

“You know I have always preferred to _inflict_ the pain, beloved.”

When Isseya steps forward the Order spurs into action with raised weapons and fingers poised on triggers. “Patience is a virtue, Valdas.”

His laugh is weak, more a wheezing exhale than anything else, but it’s enough for them. “Not one of mine…”

Outside their attack rages on but in here the stillness is almost fateful. It clings to the human’s necks in sweat and growing agitation and keeps the Trinity divided. But it is so very brittle. So easily broken.

All it takes is finding the weakest link — a trembling figure near his back, a brave lamb who thinks to prove herself worthy. Her shuffled footsteps are deafening.

She fires her pistol before Cynbel can even turn his head. And lodges itself wetly in the belly of an Order member across the room.

And really he should be considered gracious that he gives the lamb the chance to see her mistake, to watch the man cry out and clutch his bleeding side as he falls to his knees — they are in a church after all. She should know the risks that come with crossing them; crossing _him._

“Now look what you’ve done…” Cynbel’s hands fall on her shoulders and hold her still just long enough; to watch the tears horror that pales into sour fear on her face that he sacrifices seeing for the thrill of the hunt.

He snaps her neck and all hell breaks loose.

It is the violence Cynbel has been denied since the beginning. Long years of agony tasting of carnage and destruction but not given the chance to really revel in his actions — not before they were called to move onward. _The humans are on the precipice of their own war,_ said to him once, _but it must come in its own time._

He feels the sting of a bolt in the meat of his arm; cries out a raging behemoth and swipes the offender’s head clean from his shoulders.

Across the aisle Isseya rips her blade across a man’s belly and opens him from the inside out. His organs made a bloody procession for which she steps on.

Blood splatters the walls, the pews. The certainty of seeing their God driving the lovers forward in the destruction of this gathering of butchers. They don’t know the meaning of the word — but they will now. 

In his mind’s eye Cynbel remembers the map on Augustine’s wall and undoes the threads of it in every movement. Battles unwon in every man torn limb from limb, the tides of war changed as they grow stronger with every feed. They carve themselves a path to their Maker and, with it, rip the victory the Order had so foolishly thought they could claim from their feeble and mortal hands.

It’s a kind of bloodlust he hadn’t felt in over a thousand years. Beautiful, bright; blinding.

Just enough for him to miss the half-faceless man who charges towards the altar with a war cry on his missing lips and a splintered railing of wood clutched in his fist.

_“DIE! FOR THE OR—!”_

The Children of the Made-God would have been too late. A knowledge they carry like a burden; a stain on their souls for what short time they would have remained in the world of the living together… before they sought to join him in whatever comes after death.

Cynbel drops the heart wrenched from a general’s chest. Doesn’t even look as it beats it’s last inches from the owner’s face. Isseya, too, with her mouth shoved into a wayward throat pulls back and in doing so shreds it to ribbons. The bloody mask she wears twisted wretched beyond compare. Her terror, his desperation.

They witness — as they have done everything since the moment Valdas left their side — together that the human falls to his knees; silenced by his own hand.

_No, not his._

Valdas licks at the blood speckled fresh on his starving lips. The clarity is gives him is immediate; the color rushing to his cheeks. He looks to meet the eyes of his lovers but instead finds them fixated on something — some _one_ — at his back.

His anger was the only thing holding the Golden Son on two feet; a fact he comes to terms with as his knees buckle and he collapses on all fours. There’s a wailing echoing ghastly from rafter to rafter overhead and he realizes quickly the voice is his own but it isn’t enough to make him stop.

And it is with the same uncertainty as before that Ambrose looks upon the Order’s congregation and slaughter. His blistering skin is made new in the church’s shadow, so little blood staining his coat that it could only have come from the dead soldier at their feet.

There’s nothing else Valdas can do but take in his lovers and their weakness. The ache it brings to his heart only matched by the physical pain that comes when unfamiliar hands grasp at the manacles that hold him victim.

Ambrose grunts with the effort but finally wrenches one free; holds his wounded palms close to his chest but it is more than enough.

At once they are upon him. Cynbel at his ankles and Isseya on his other hand, both of them weathering the pain because they cannot imagine doing otherwise.

When he is finally freed Valdas stands over them. Wavering, but _alive._ Made whole in the mere presence of one another.

Then there’s a soft _thud_ and the noise forces open eyes Cynbel hadn’t realized he closed. No longer above them, Valdas too rests on his knees to look at them not on high… but as an equal.

Isseya reaches out first. Touches the edges of a gaping wound on Valdas’ cheekbone with trembling reverence. It’s a movement he mirrors on her, then upon them both. He opens his mouth to speak but nothing comes out. Unable to find—or manage—the words that may not yet exist.

His gaze says enough.

_I thought I’d lost you._

What is he supposed to say to that? Cynbel finds himself looking to Isseya for answers but she’s just as lost. Just as vulnerable and a breath, a touch away from crumbling to dust.

Two thousand years. One hundred and thirty seven fights. Eight months altogether spent apart and too many acts of love to count. Five excruciating times he nearly lost them — now six.

And in a rare first Cynbel looks into the eyes of what is by all accounts a complete stranger and whispers _“Thank you.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried (and hopefully succeeded) to really highlight the different mentalities grief can bring in this chapter. How they keep going back and forth between _”He’s really gone”_ and _”No he can’t be”_ that make the pair their own worst enemies in a way, that make them seem manic in the eyes of strangers and reckless in a way that could have proved fatal. I’d really like to know if that came out in this, all critique is welcomed!


	9. III.iii. Belief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some people spend their whole lives looking for something to believe in. They're lucky that they never had to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **chapter content warnings:** blood, mentions of death

_Two months later…_

Cynbel watches as Ambrose leans against the railing with hands braced on the cold metal. Colder sea spray lashes at their cheeks under the night sky but they pay it little mind. They have, perhaps, had enough heat and fire to last more than one mortal lifetime.

“I don’t think I’ve ever had such a fill in my life.” The American groans, and Cynbel actually feels _bad_ for him.

“There is far more to this life than fighting someone else’s wars. Give it time — you’ll see why we were starving so.”

Together the man glance down to the depths below. Where the foam left in the wake of their ship fades pink from bodies already lost underneath the ocean’s current.

“If y’all eat like that every day I’m startin’ to get it.”

And true enough the last few weeks of travel have been positively lavish compared to the squalor of _mine living._ Even this limited food supply seems boundless when they remember the rot of starvation in their bellies. But that does not diminish how good it is — how good it _feels_ to be, not unlike the sea, free.

Sayeed held up her end of the bargain, so it was only fair that Cynbel and Isseya do the same. The _where_ of their journey did not matter so long as they were far from Virginia’s shores. The _when_ was with haste — and for good reason.

With none left to lead them the remaining militia of the Order of the Dawn was made harmless. The comparisons of the sides were unfortunately fraught with similarities, some not even Cynbel could deny. As the Order had culled the Old Blood; the vampires who had survived centuries of their fruitless extermination attempts, so had the war turned in their favor. But with only the newly inducted left to lead them — and many with ties that bound them to communities, to families; to vulnerability — their ‘holy mission’ was made second to the more pressing matters of the not-so-United States.

He couldn’t care less about the Godmaker’s plans now, whether he chooses to retaliate against the Trinity’s desertion of him or not. Two decks below his beloveds pass the boring hours with card games and wistful possibilities of when they make port.

He needs nothing else.

Now imagine their surprise at the familiar sight catching the last call to board. His battalion may now be nothing more than ash but there was no reason for Ambrose to turn and run. In fact Valdas had a strong inclination to name him Gaius’ spy and cast him overboard.

With only a matter of days before they find Europe on the horizon… he actually can’t remember why they didn’t.

_A life for a life._

In between shuffled decks and lavish feasting and their halfhearted attempts at breaking through the hull by way of their beds, though, the Golden Son has found himself fond of the man. Older in appearance and admittedly wise beyond his years — but still so very new to what this life could offer—would offer, now.

Habit makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand when Ambrose reaches inside the breast pocket of his coat; eases when he sees the tinder box and cigarettes rolled with absolutely no skill whatsoever in his hands.

Ambrose sparks the tinder. Cynbel swallows down nightmares of hellfire. They share a moment of quiet.

“I should have said this before…” Cynbel begins around a mouth of ill-tasting smoke, “but when we make port this — our camaraderie — will come to an end.”

He’s come to expect the long silences in between answers, so much so that it barely feels like any time has passed at all when Ambrose finally does speak.

“I thought as much.” And doesn’t that just make the older vampire laugh.

“Two millennia and only _now_ do we meet someone who understands. Shame and pity.”

“Oh I don’t, not even a lick.” The eyes that meet his, though, contradict Ambrose in every way. Eyes that seem sure and solid despite the rocking beneath their feet. So he continues.

“You three — whatever you’ve got there is… it’s dangerous.” _So they have been told, and by lesser men._ “But through this whole fight I’ve seen men Turn, live, and die over and over again without even a drop of the conviction you two’ve got for your Maker. I’ll be frank with you, Cynbel. It’s unsettling.”

“It’s love.”

“Is that what love is? I’m really askin’ here. Because I sure as hell ain’t ever felt a love like that. Not in this lifetime or the one that came before it.”

Just like that the conversation takes a turn for the uninteresting. Cynbel draws his attention out to the midnight horizon, where one can’t tell the sky from the sea. “All the more pitiful are you, then. I will not justify what we are for your whims, Ambrose. Not for you, not for Sayeed, not for anyone.”

“You misunderstand.”

“I doubt that.”

“It ain’t your strange-like love I’m interested in, but rather what it makes you.”

The only reason he’d offered Ambrose company was because Iss’ refused to play anything other than rummy, and he’s _terrible_ at rummy. And standing here he can’t help but wonder which is more of a torture.

“You and Isseya nearly died for him. And I think you would have should that have been what you needed to do.”

“Of course we would have.”

“And I couldn’t understand why — not really. Why you’d risk yourselves, risk anyone else, but not him.”

Cynbel doesn’t bother hiding the venom in his answer. “Because He is more than they were. More than Iss’ or myself could ever hope to be. That is the kind of devotion He inspires. Would you not do the same for Augustine? Or your First, to make a finer comparison of it.”

The same long pause — but this one drags out. Thin, fragile between them and quickly unraveling at the seams. Then—

“No.”

“Then you’re wasting time searching for answers when you would not even recognize them when found. We would have died for Him — of course. But that is merely part of it. That is what the rest of the world sees and takes us to be entirely. We are more than the death we bring and would bear for Him.

“No one seems to realize that we _lived_ for him. Just as fiercely — perhaps even more so because we _could_ have died, but we did not. _That_ is what has driven our lust for living; not that we would fall to our knees and take the sword with our necks for Him, but that He gives us the strength to take the sword in hand and say _‘no more.’”_

Perhaps it would be nice to be understood for once. For the ages not to seem so ignorant and dull as they always have because one person — just one, that’s all it would take — realizes their love is not about sacrifice. But that it is about survival.

In silence Ambrose takes out another cigarette, more flint. Offers him one but Cynbel declines with a small shake of his head. Four weeks he’s been able to put the events of that day behind him as he had always done. Left it in the past and continued on to a future where they need not worry about being apart.

Four _fucking_ weeks, but that’s all.

Ambrose keeps the cigarette between his lips when he speaks again. “I lived human for forty-some years. Spent my whole young life livin’ just as most did; you understand,” —he marched the breadth of those states just the same, he understands quite well— “and Turnin’ gave me more than just the power to free myself. It gave me — well, I thought — somethin’ to believe in.”

“Immortality?”

“The First.” The way he says her name is wistful enough to strike up a curiosity in Cynbel, much like the small flame struck up on his tinderbox.

Wistful, and no longer so reverent.

“Won’t say I’m the only one, either. There were a lotta boys like me who heard about the First Vampire who rose herself up from false judgment, from bein’ put in chains on another’s lies, and not only struck her enemies down but wanted to make a place where all like her were just as free.”

They are words that draw Cynbel back to Charlottesville, to the barn and Ambrose with his little box of ashes and his little gathering and his little words of _worship_ and _meaning_ in their comrade’s death. Strange that the man from then is the same one who stands before him now.

“Faith does wonders in times of strife.”

“It did — ‘til I heard you two talk about your Maker, your Made-God.”

“And what has that changed in you, hm?”

“The first time I ever heard Augustine tell the story of the First Vampire he made sure we well knew that every death was a piece’a her power going home — just another drop to fill some vessel that would bring her back to save us.

“But you don’t think like that,” Ambrose says it like a revelation; like wool no longer being pulled over his eyes, “and it got me thinking about what exactly I’m keepin’ immortality _for._ ‘Cause I gotta say doin’ it for a love like that sounds a helluva lot better than staying around just so some day I can die for a myth.”

Cynbel narrows his eyes. “The First was no myth. She was very real.”

“I’m sure she was, Old Blood. To you and Isseya and even Valdas, probably. Just like she’s real to Augustine and Sayeed. But that’s all two thousand years gone now. Who knows if she’ll ever come back, or when. That makes her pretty myth-like to me.”

What does one say to that? He may have propositioned Ambrose for this their night of feasting with a bottle of cheap liquor in hand but it wasn’t _nearly_ enough to bring this kind of philosophical debate out of him. Yet it’s affirming in a way—not that any of the Trinity would seek affirmation for themselves, for their devotion to one another—he didn’t quite expect.

“I honestly can’t tell if you’re trying to confess your love to me or not.”

“Ha!” Ambrose laughs so hard his cigarette tumbles into the sea not half-finished. Deserves it. “In your dreams. Though I’ll start rackin’ up a tally seeing as that’s the second time you’ve propositioned me.”

“You’re being terribly rude. And it’s a _terribly_ long swim back to the colonies.”

But the other man just shakes his head. “Truth be told no one’s ever let me ramble on this long about anythin’. Ended up a little off the tracks.”

“A _little?”_

“All I’m saying, Cynbel, is you and yours —”

“The Trinity, respect your elders.”

“— yeah, sure. Whatever you call yourselves—that kind of devotion can be inspiring to my kind of folk. A lot more than prayin’ on ‘maybes.’ What was that thing, the one Isseya said in the caravan.”

“Which — oh, while she was eating your man for insubordination?”

There’s a clatter behind them and both men turn towards it. They had found themselves so deep in debate that neither took notice to the young couple stretching their legs under the moon. To the young wife who looks aghast and sullied just for hearing the words and to her young husband suddenly trying to pull her to some imagined safety.

Cynbel and Ambrose take the same moment to watch them scurry along before they resume. A needed break in the tension.

He remembers it of course. Clear as the daylight that had struck them down. Even in their desperation and fear for Valdas’ fate it was hard—literally—not to hear such things from her bloodied teeth and find himself aroused.

_“‘I choose to believe in a God who walks beside me. Who will answer when I call.’”_

Ambrose nods. “Strange and, pardon my French, fuckin’ insane as she was then, that’s the kind of stuff gospels are made from.”

“So you’re proposing, what,” Cynbel’s disbelief is obvious, _“The Gospel of Valdemaras?”_

Silence. Real, non-hesitant silence. The kind of silence that forces Cynbel to face the man for answers and finds them in a resolution unfounded in those strange, dark eyes.

Well… one person finally understands. If only he knew what that means.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes conviction isn’t enough; sometimes the only path to victory isn’t alone. I know sometimes the Trinity can seem very... outlandish. And that's putting it nicely. I've set myself up for a unique challenge (at least I think) in trying to portray the emotional and mental details of a relationship that old. It can lead to irrational acts and thoughts. It... does. But I digress. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed Ambrose, as I’ve loved his character concept from the moment he appeared to me. I really liked the idea of showing how vampires who would have been called _”Clanless”_ survived before the main storyline and he was a perfect example of that. And he’ll be back! Comments and critique would be fabulous as always. Thank you for reading! Next week I’ll be seeing you in Victorian London!


	10. IV.i. Complex Creatures Are They

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #### Part IV.
> 
> — London, 1876. They have been everywhere and done everything. Watched empires rise and fall and seen marvels never even dreamed of. The Trinity have wealth, they have youth — they have each other. But after two thousand years... is it still enough?
> 
> * * *
> 
> Invitation to dine at the Montes Estate is a desirable thing. Earning the ire of its Lords and Lady; less so. Though the years continue to change the Trinity's devotion to one another will always stay the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **chapter content warnings:** sexism, language, violence, blood, gore, mature content

_London, 1876_

“If you ask me _my_ opinion on the matter —”

Valdas sighs around his forkful of mutton — a little thing easily missed by mortal ears, but they catch it quite plainly. Valdas has the patience of a man who has weathered the petulance of monarchies for ages. If _he_ cannot hold back his disdain there must really be something worth disliking about the man.

 _Well that much is more than obvious._ And this is only _one_ of the several evenings they are meant to host the boorish Viscount?

“Please,” Cynbel encourages with less than half a heart, _“do_ go on, Lord Edwards.” And because his head is so far up his own rear end he does. In such a fashion that matches his red-faced appetite no less.

“Well, _my_ opinion is that of Her Majesty’s. Shame only that she could not have exerted her authority enough to silence that ponce Gurney permanently.”

Pick any other dining room in London and one might find Edwards’ sentiments met with agreement from all around. Here, however, he’s lucky to get similar views out of even a third of the table. The best part is that he has the misfortune of realizing it far too late to take it back.

That they have been able to surround themselves with like minds so quickly since their arrival is nothing short of luck. Or perhaps, he’s willing to admit, expert skill on the parts of his lovers.

There’s a reason Cynbel is no longer allowed to attend even a simple tea without one of them; at the very least. Usually it takes both to undo the damage he unwittingly causes whenever he opens his mouth.

Because the Viscount Edwards is a fool he waits — lets the silence drag on uncomfortably in the hopes that someone might raise their voice to agree with him. Doubtful such a fragile ego could handle healthy debate.

Valdas and Cynbel exchange glances of barely-contained bemusement. They do so enjoy watching her tear into lesser men — even if it no longer means literally so.

“If you would not have women in the medical profession, my Lord, where would you have them then?”

Their darling girl — she’s never been known for her mercy. She doesn’t even allow the Viscount a moment’s offense before she snaps her fingers brisk, startling him into attention. “I asked you a question. As you are in _my_ home and at _my_ table, and as the words you so childishly spew are wetted with _my_ wine, the least you could do is muster me an answer.”

“Such a brazen young wife you have, Lord Montes.”

Cynbel covers his mouth with his hand — if he starts to laugh now he simply won’t be able to stop. Valdas, too, looks ready to mock the man but he knows better by now. Both of them know this is simply the mentality of such fragile creatures; it is in the nature of the weak to find someone to subjugate as a means of removing that weakness. But it is still there; they are merely blind to it. And it will be the death of them.

“I believe it was the Lady Montes who was addressing you, my Lord, not I.”

But Cynbel’s restraint is only so much, and far less than his beloveds. “Unless you picked up a fair talent for ventriloquy in secret. Have you, Valdas?”

“I doubt even a master of the profession could impose upon my Lady his will.” _She would eat his tongue for even trying._

With every quip the Viscount huffs and puffs, red face now a compliment to the plum of Cynbel’s dinner jacket.

And if there is one thing the Trinity has learned since immersing themselves in the upper echelons of Victorian society it is this: the wealthy are fools who equate riches with longevity; because they have money they think they will live forever.

Yet they do so _love_ to dig their own graves.

“I admit there are certain advantages to having the nurturing concern of a woman at one’s sickly bedside,” Edwards digs and digs _and digs,_ “but there is an inherent difference between the sexes that cannot be denied. That has been proven scientifically! And by those very same who would now burden themselves with the task of catching a woman up to their decade’s worth of knowledge.”

 _“‘Nurturing concern?’ Who, our Iss’?”_ Cynbel whispers for Valdas’ amusement even though it receives him the sharp sting of a shoe on his toes.

Though if either man had not seen the carnality Isseya was capable of with their own eyes they might not believe any claims to such. Not of late, anyway. They humor her these lashings of wit because she suffers the brunt of the burdens among this closed-minded society — the least they could do is allow her to bring men like the Viscount to heel like the dogs they are.

A task which she has not only accepted — but which she _flourishes_ in. More than once her words have been enough to sway the dustiest of aged lechers, the young men raised to think their mothers less than them, the whole lot.

And when words are fruitless—because some are born and will die ignorant—both Valdas and Cynbel watch with delight (and no small amount of desire) while she serves them threats on their lives dipped in honey with their wine.

Cynbel shifts so as not to do so obviously — but one look to Isseya’s perfect features and he knows the Viscount will join the latter ranks this night.

He slips his hand down to rest on her thigh. Draws soft circles with his thumb, carves the old tongue they try desperately not to forget in the light drag of his fingernail over silk. Her tension eases slightly.

“Bold that you would impose such vulgarity on me in my own home.”

“Your husband’s home.”

Valdas _tsks_ and folds his hands over his meal. “Best I’m kept out of this, I despair to think of the mess.”

 _“My home,”_ another snap to draw the Viscount’s attention, “where you have grossly overstayed your welcome.”

Of course men like him have the gall to look offended. Guest of Parliament or not Cynbel is having a hard time resisting the urge to tear his spine out in the middle of the entree. _If_ he could manage to find it, anyway.

“I beg pardon?!”

“No amount of begging could change my mind, though you are welcome to try.” Isseya smooths her skirts and stands, her lovers following suit. And with them, the rest of their guests save the Viscount join in.

“Montes, surely you see this—this —” _Don’t say it… don’t say it…_ “— this _hysteria_ for what it is!”

Innovation has been a wonderful thing but Cynbel knows firsthand he and his are not the only vampires resentful to some of its finer points. Disposing of a body used to be such a simple thing; you could just leave it out and save grieving families and vengeful lovers nothing more would come of it. Do you know how _hard_ it is to make a body vanish these days?

But the effort of it is a necessary one. His title will spur investigation, and already he’s contemplating when the constable will come knocking with statements of this very argument in hand. And it will be worth it for the satisfaction their beloved will get in eviscerating him.

It is Valdas who speaks and they both know why. Neither of them particularly eager to deal with the consequences of the fangs Iss’ will undoubtedly bare.

“Get. out.”

“My Lord —”

_“Now!”_

They scurry like the insects they are. Those who have been to the Montes Estate for before—and wish to do so again—are polite enough to push their chairs in before they join the crowd. Valdas takes note of their faces. They wouldn’t have survived this long without knowing the faces of what few humans were worth getting acquainted with.

The Viscount takes his pitiful time. Still aghast; unable to fathom that he is somehow in the wrong despite insulting the hostess numerous times, lacking in the common sense to _read the bloody room._

He is the last to leave. As though lingering might somehow change their minds, as though they might apologize. He has the political clout to make Valdas’ work with the House of Commons difficult and he’s undoubtedly petty enough to do just that.

Or he would if he had the chance.

He won’t.

Only then does he notice that Isseya isn’t still at all. She’s shaking.

“Iss’…?” Cynbel moves to pull her close by the waist — or he would if she doesn’t slap his hand aside with a noise of discontent.

He doesn’t know what to say, to do. Looks to Valdas because he is their Light, their Lord, and he always has the answer. But even he seems uncertain.

His tone is perhaps a little too warning and not sympathetic enough. “Isseya, that was uncalled for.”

“Fuck your _‘uncalled for!’”_

Cynbel is a victim of proximity and bears the weight of her lashing; squeezes his eyes closed so tight the spectacles they once thought so amusing on him nearly slip off his nose. The stale evening air doesn’t lessen the five points of pain where she gored at his cheek. Feels his blood wet and warm in rivulets trickling down his skin to _drip drip_ their crimson stain on his collar.

Not like they haven’t struck one another out of passion in their eternity together. They have before and no doubt they would again; such is the burden of loving too hard—too much.

But Isseya doesn’t even look remorseful. No, she looks _satisfied._

It stuns both of her lovers still and silent. She bares human teeth with a fire in her eyes. “You think all is made calm with a—a touch?! That fucking me content undoes the words I take night after night _after night?!”_

“Neither of us would dare,” replies Valdas cool and calm. It only angers her further.

“I will not deny it was amusing at first; toying with their heads, seducing their wives, dismantling the safety of the _disgusting_ mentalities they have held for far too long. But I can only take so much. Why should _I_ have to make argument as to whether or not I am worthy of _personhood_ in front of these _worms?!”_

Cynbel has to wait until his cheek has healed to speak, until he can no longer feel the breeze near the candles against his teeth. “You seemed as if to enjoy it.”

“Like I said — at first.”

“Why didn’t you say something?”

She snarls. “I do. Every. god. damned. night. I do.” Her chest heaves against her corset with every word and Cynbel can’t remember _ever_ seeing her like this; so repulsed by him, by them. “But I don’t even get to kill them! To show them just who they have angered — who they have _wronged._ A thousand years ago no man would dare say such things even in my presence lest they lose their precious cocks, or find their entrails strung up like garlands in the trees, or taste their pathetic little spines.

“But I can’t do that anymore, can I? Not without risk of exposure, of being _caught._ If not as vampires then as murderers.”

“We have all made sacrifices in the face of a changed world, darling.” Valdas insists, but they all know it to be true.

She raises her chin despite the trembling of her lower lip.

“I can no longer, my Lord. Do not ask it of me, not even for another night. I _can’t.”_

When their Divinity rounds to her Isseya struggles, even if only at first. Tries in vain to pull her wrists from his grasp, to push him away, but Cynbel knows firsthand the efforts are fruitless.

Then, not even a needle of space between them, she dissolves into tears in her God’s arms. Wails with the might of a banshee muffled into his collar and he weathers the storm of her in an eternal embrace.

 _Of course._ Of course they have all given up the old world, the old ways in lieu of progress. And Cynbel thought himself the most resistant to it all but he could not have been more blind to the truth. In many ways he is still given a berth to be the hunter, the predator that lurks beneath his skin. But not her, not Isseya.

When Valdas goes to rest his hand upon her hair the ornaments braided in stop him. _Ornaments, baubles they bought her, bound her with_ Cynbel’s mind unhelpfully reminds him — but he pushes it aside to gently comb them free, to free _her_ even if just a little bit.

He could—should, is about to—step back. But with claws still stained by his blood Isseya reaches back for a fistful of his dinner coat. _Don’t go._ So he doesn’t; rests his forehead against the crown of her and allows them both to envelop her until she is no more.

* * *

It was a drunken amusement to them; this echoing cavern of a house in the heart of crowded London. Certainly it was more space than they would ever need. They had their bed, as they had always done. And more often than not every other room stood still — as preserved in time as the home’s occupants.

Only by force has the Trinity ever slept apart.

Until now.

He’s awake but Cynbel doesn’t open his eyes. And when he does his arm is thrown over them. Trying to keep the world away for as long as possible.

It’s with a selfish relief that he wanders into the dining room to find the other parts of his soul looking as just as sleep-deprived and lost as he feels.

Cynbel’s half into his seat at Valdas’ left when he catches Isseya’s subtle cough. Looks up to her as perfect as ever and strangely he’s a little disappointed their healing did not let her stay red-eyed and savage — as though it somehow seeks to invalidate her agony — but he can’t imagine _not_ being at her beck and call and makes his way to her instead.

Before Iss’ can rise to meet him Cynbel takes a knee at her side.

The absent rustling of papers stops behind him; Valdas taken with the sight of them even all these years, decades, centuries later. But pride is for those better-rested, so Cynbel settles on contentment that only grows when Isseya’s hesitant hand begins to card through his hair.

“Waking was…”

“Torture?” she offers, and he takes it because it’s true, “I… would fall to the edge of sleep, but there was such a void around me I never really rested.”

Cynbel nods, _knows._ “I must have come to around midday but could not bring it upon myself to move.”

The Children of Valdemaras look to him as one. Neither of them could expect the stack of bound papers he produces from his lap. “I finally finished that play I started with William.”

They laugh because it’s ridiculous and because they could not possibly lament any more than they already have. There’s a comfort between them even if he’s sitting on the rug so that’s where Cynbel stays; where he pulls the manuscript down and flips through it while Isseya tries to read over his shoulder. “No no, go back, I saw _‘cock-chamber’_ what the bloody hell is a _‘cock-chamber’?”_ And when Valdas does not answer his Golden Son makes use of long legs and nudges teasingly at the man’s groin for incentive to do so.

“Come on, tell us. Tell us. Please tell us? Tell us please!”

“You’re like a child!”

“You adore it.”

“I — _you both know very well_ that this catastrophe of a script was started under some _very_ strong hallucinogenics. Get your foot — we’ve discussed my dislike of your feet!”

Valdas bats away the offending foot; fixes what likely would be a harsh and cold glare down at his firstborn. But there’s a snort up above Cynbel’s head and both of them look to the sight of Isseya with different tears in her eyes, desperately plugging away at her nose and _they’ve only made her laugh like that maybe ten times in two thousand years_ and she’s so beautiful — he’s so beautiful — _they are both so fucking beautiful it hurts him all the way down to his bones._

“Oh I remember,” Isseya agrees, “and if my memory serves me—which it usually does—you came back to us in full costume regalia for the role of a… what was it, beloved?”

She looks down to Cynbel, whose mischief matches her mirth.

“Why my dearest love I _do_ believe it was the role of a whore.”

Not that they haven’t told him this story dozens of times for the sheer amusement of it, but that each time Valdas still manages to look so _offended_ makes it all the better.

“I—without proof I refuse to believe —”

“You made such a pretty whore,” Isseya croons.

“I would have paid you in the crown jewels.”

“You—the both of you are such awful, terrible, ungrateful progeny!” _And I will love you as I have loved you, as I love you now; boundlessly and effortlessly and eternally._ He doesn’t need to say it. That’s what makes it wonderful.

By the time their attending man comes in with the post Cynbel has returned to a proper seat. But the corners that divide the three of them no longer feel so sharp at the edges; the distance no longer so vast.

How delightfully, dreadfully _domestic_ they are in these moments. One could forget they once ravaged continents were they to see this, now; three vampires pouring over letters, missives, the paper.

Isseya lets out a noise of discontent, a lilted _“bastard,”_ as she devours a small handwritten missive. Cynbel glances at the envelope but doesn’t recognize the handwriting.

“Not another wedding invitation, I hope.”

“You know I would prefer it to this betrayal.” She takes no small amount of satisfaction in holding the thick vellum sheet over the nearest candle; lets it burn bright and until the flames tickle her fingertips before she drops what remains onto her empty plate. “It seems my own _ungrateful_ progeny has taken it upon himself to choose the new home of the _Musea Sanguis.”_

Valdas frowns. “We agreed Jingyi was to move the collection here, to London. Don’t tell me he’s kept it in Paris.”

“On the contrary, snide little worm stabbed us in the back. He sends his _‘good tidings and well-fucking-wishes’_ from _New York.”_

And they all know what that means. Not that there’s anything inherently _wrong_ with the Godmaker taking principle ownership of the _Musea,_ in fact given the political unease on their side of the world it makes the most sense.

Still. “It would have been nice to reclaim a few of our things before they fell into his hands,” Valdas mutters, and is not disagreed with.

With the fewest ties to society Cynbel rarely has anything specifically bearing his title. And if he does its importance is always greatly exaggerated. Like the invitation to Tepes’ new estate in Prague — he thought the man would have given up by now; what with his other _dozen_ requests for their attendance at his _bal masqué_ ignored. Unfortunately not.

Today, though, is different.

“Would you look at that…” He drags his knife along the common stock envelope but there’s only one person who would take the time to address him these days. “Seems Ambrose has made his way North. Though I suppose if there’s ever a time to wander those winters it’s when you can no longer feel the chill.”

“The boy from Virginia? He still writes?”

Cynbel shrugs and hands the letter off to Valdas’ curious eye. “What can I say, he saved your life and I was feeling nurturing.”

It’s the word that earns Isseya’s scornful mocking. “Then _you_ shall be the one to keep the estate tidy.”

“I _am_ the fairer sex, thank you for noticing.”

“Positively _porcelain.”_

“Isseya, my love?”

“Hm?”

“Kindly fuck off.”

It’s the kind of laughter that can’t help but be infectious. Seeping from one to the other to the other and linking them as they link their hands.

 _This._ Cynbel knows it, feels it between and through them. _This is worth living for._

And it is.

* * *

They’ve given themselves this gift for a reason. This indulgence, this life of excess. It is their reward for such a brief time without. Is it possibly too much too fast — he won’t say _no._ But what is endless life without going a little too far sometimes?

And though they are so desperately (painfully, yearningly, eternally) in love, the Trinity accepts that there are simply some facets of life in which they will never agree.

That would make this splendid time — trivial though it is — a first for them. A time in which they are all contented enough.

He should have known it would come crashing down sooner or later.

It takes a few days, lulls them into a false sense of security, but it does. It always does.

Cynbel’s mood sours the moment he steps into the mortuary. The smell that tickles the tip of his nose — _fake death._ Just let corpses rot, fucking humans.

“You’d better have a good reason for dragging me down here so close to dawn, Whittaker.” He barks because he knows his voice will echo harsh on the room’s tiles, because he knows the skittish man will (and does) cringe and make his shriveled self smaller at the mere presence of him.

Whittaker is a small whelp of a man. He never stops fidgeting, messing with his hands. Cynbel has half a mind to take one of his medical devices and saw his feet off at the ankles just so he doesn’t have to hear the rustling of his shuffled steps.

As expected he jumps out of his own skin; barely puts it back on before he’s tripping over himself in an attempt to greet the vampire at the door.

“As I ss-said in my letter, I _deeply_ apologize for the inconvenience, sir,” and his words are oily with prostrated subservience, “but this could not w-wait. You will thank me f-for the warning.”

Exactly _how_ Whittaker’s mortal life had crossed paths with enough evil to curse him revenant is a mystery Cynbel will never solve, but one that will haunt him until the end of his days.

“This way, if you please.”

Technically there is not a living soul among them. Three bodies — two who just so happen to have the fortune (and misfortune in Whittaker’s case) of permanence on this the plane of the living.

The revenant’s translucent hand hovers over the sheet for a moment. Perhaps he debates on whether or not to withdraw his summons — though they both know Cynbel will not allow it. He grasps the edge and pulls it back.

Cynbel isn’t surprised to see Viscount Edwards there; their unwilling guest of honor. Gladdened, perhaps. Concerned, deeply. But not surprised.

“You recognize him then.”

“Would you have called me here if you thought I would not?”

There is almost an _“ah-ah,”_ from the mortician as Cynbel reaches for the corpse, but he thinks better of it and simply hovers. A fly seeking spoils while the vulture circles carrion.

His touch is clinical, methodical. Fingertips over peeling lips and down the full face. Eventually he whips the sheet aside and lets it fall behind him to be forgotten. Hears the mad dash of Whittaker to pick it up but doesn’t really _listen_ to it.

“I feel no trace of warmth coming from him.”

His question, unspoken, is answered; “Lamplighters pulled him from the Thames not a few hours ago.”

“A drowned man doesn’t look like this.” _Like this,_ he says, but even for a connoisseur of death such as himself Cynbel struggles to put it to better words. And he cannot help his reluctance to turn the man’s chin this way and that — but there are no wounds to be found even on his neck.

_With every answer, a dozen questions more._

When he finally manages to wrench his eyes away Whittaker is back on the other side of the table straightening his smock. “I’ll need a carriage and a disposable driver. He’s not yet in rigor — have you a trunk or a crate? Something discreet.”

No creature as low on the evolutionary food chain as Whittaker should ever look at him like that; with pity. He’s feeling enough strangeness as it is — adding anger would only be adding fuel to the fire. “This is not a task to be negotiated, whelp. I’ll take him back to Montes and you will claim the death a suicide.” _Why else would he have brought Cynbel here if not to help him cover it up?_ “Isseya can perform her own autopsy.”

“Ah, see…” Whittaker _ticks_ his tongue; Cynbel takes great pleasure in the thought of ripping it out with a pair of nearby forceps, “that — I mean to say — that won’t be possible this time.”

 _This time._ Because he’s to believe this creature has suddenly grown a spine? Bodies in far worse condition and definitively by the Trinity’s hand (because this, this he isn’t sure) have gotten the same treatment. Why else would he keep Whittaker’s ill company? He wouldn’t.

Cynbel leans forward and braces his hands on the edge of the table. It creaks under the weight of his years and Whittaker is right to jump in fright.

“And the logic to your insanity would be…?”

There is a great deal of fumbling and the metallic clatter of scalpels on the stone floor. All leading to an offering; a file of worn leather — something that has seen its share of reports all of them with bodies such as the Viscounts; set about in an endless cycle of morbidity.

“A—A detective of the Yard, sir. He’s already opened an investigation.”

Happenstance and the Trinity’s bad luck, really, that at the same time two skin-and-bone Lamplighters soaked through were catching the attention of a night constable, across London a detective was doing his level best to avoid his wrathful wife by staying on the job as long as he could. That he was two steps out into the night just as that same constable was rushing up in a fright.

Happenstance and _really. bad. fucking. luck._

“So you s-see,” Whittaker hastens to finish his tale, casts glances at the poor excuse for a window near the ceiling to gauge the morning’s arrival, “I must dissect the poor Viscount here. Claiming his body gone would — dare I say it — be even more suspect than it already is.”

“So you brought me here to make a mockery of me?”

“Of cc-course not sir!”

“Then why —”

“To _warn you.”_

There’s a twinge of the Veil in the bespelled man’s warble. Whispers both his and not on lips that don’t move, a tongue that doesn’t speak. Cynbel prides himself on being a worldly man, on knowing secrets of both the worlds of light and shadow, and has seen this from Whittaker before.

If only it would stop the sinking pit of despair growing inside.

* * *

Their home is vast, yes. But Cynbel is loud.

“Isseya! _Isseya!”_

He breezes past the one who tries to take his coat and thinks little of it. No break in his bounding strides up the stairwell three at a time even though he hasn’t an inkling where they might be hiding at such a cunning hour.

“This isn’t the time for games! Valdas — Isseya!”

_“Grief, you’re a dramatic one. We’re in the drawing room!”_

Cynbel rounds the doorway to a peculiar sight. The first of its kind and for them that’s a bold statement.

But Isseya does not look up from her careful medical practices. Her grip doesn’t waiver even slightly on her scalpel where it slides like a hot knife in butter _inside_ their Divinity’s abdomen.

Valdas reaches up what little he can where he lays prone on a chaise and dabs at her forehead with a handkerchief. As though live and conscious surgery is as much a part of them as lovemaking.

_If this their darling girl’s fascination with the medical profession continues it may very well become such._

Cynbel’s words choke back down his throat as he approaches. All thought gone but for the sight before him. Watching intently as she slices along the layers of Valdas’ skin until she can pull back the flesh enough to expose bone.

Valdas hisses at that, which causes Isseya to still. Not to remove herself from him, but to wait until he gives the go-ahead for her to continue.

“I’m glad you’ve returned before she finished,” wheezes Valdas — a noise that draws Cynbel’s attention up to his similarly-filleted left lung as it goes through the familiar process of molding itself back together, “here I was beginning to worry I wouldn’t get the opportunity to ask your opinion on the matter.”

 _Would his opinion have stopped her?_ “My opinion on what, exactly?”

“How lovingly our dearest penetrates me, of course.” Both of his children can see the strain on his insides as he holds back his laughter. “She’s not as thick as you are, Cynbel, but she’s a quick study.”

“Obviously.” She mumbles back.

“Do you mean sexually or medically, beautif— _aah, ow_ —ul?”

Even at the compliment she remains focused. “Yes.”

For a moment it’s almost enough to forget; to imagine all is well. Until it isn’t.

Valdas picks at a stray bit of flesh absently. “Whatever had you in such a maelstrom must not have been that important. Though if you care to explain why you return so close to sunrise, I would hear it.”

Isseya muses alongside; “One would have thought you got your fill of sunlight for the next century or so. I certainly did.”

 _Yes, right._ “Whittaker sent for me.” And their disgust is understandable.

“What could that thing have possibly wanted that warranted such an outrage?” asks Valdas, but it’s Isseya that Cynbel fixates on when he speaks next.

“He wished for me to identify a body pulled out of the river. That of Viscount Edwards.”

Her composure slips in an instant. Her blood-slicked grasp veers harshly to the side, is followed quickly by their Lord and Light’s cry of malcontent and fresh blood bubbling up from the new incision. Of course he has sustained greater wounds, he is the Made-God of countless ages and innumerable battles. But that doesn’t stop Valdas from watching their darling beauty with a hesitant shadow on his previously carefree expression.

It takes little time for Isseya to regain her composure, she clasps fingers interlaced over the wound as if to demand the pieces of him knit back together. Cynbel grabs a cloth from the nearest washing bowl and kneels beside her to help.

That she goes rigid at his touch hurts him more than she can ever know.

The Made-God speaks first. Because his Golden Son has no more to say. Because his Priestess will not.

“Explain yourself.” But the movement only agitates the wound and the doctor.

“When you’ve healed. Stop talking.”

“I am not beholden to your whims, Isseya,” Valdas doesn’t care that he smears his blood on her as he grasps her chin; forces their eyes to meet, “you are beholden to mine. I seek an answer, and you will not deny me.”

Decades have passed since they have heard _that voice_ from him. The one that demands their worship and takes nothing less than all they are. The voice of their Maker; more than a God in affectionate compliments but real and true. Old and craven.

Even Cynbel feels the pull of his blood towards Him, how it turns his skin inside-out and bends his spine in supplication. Were he not so desperate for the same answers he would almost pity her.

 _Fuck, she’s so proud._ Not defiant—never—but _proud._ “Of course, my Holy One. I could never — _would_ never think to.”

“I will not repeat myself.” _Explain yourself._

“There is nothing to explain.”

He moves in a blur; a speed they will never hope to match. Grip tight enough to part her lips and expose her tongue. Her scalpel still stained with his blood now with the tip pressed against it. She learned her favorite torture methods from Him after all.

“You would lie to me with mine own tongue? Then I will take it back.”

“Were I lying I would cut it out myself in offering,” and for the first time she actually wavers, “but I am not, and would ask my Holy One to spare me for it.”

 _Two fights in the same fortnight. He wants to scream._ But he cautions a tender hand between her shoulder blades instead. “Iss’… think about this.”

Not like they haven’t killed for revenge before. So why does she tempt his wrath like this here, now? Why would she not boast of this cur’s well-deserved death like she would any other?

The thought must occur to Valdas at the same time. He drops her and the blade all at once and pulls her against him, teeth grit through the pain of his healing body but that would never be enough to stop him.

Their kiss isn’t one of apology. This is what the two worshipers of Valdemaras walked willingly into millennia ago. They love Him for this. And He loves them in return.

Cynbel’s wide palm rests where their thighs meet. Their hands cover his on instinct.

“Wash up,” he tells them, “I worry that the revenant calling on me was a sign that this will not be a thing so easily ignored. The Yard has called for an investigation.”

It’s a messy thing; the way three bodies intertwine fingers. But they have seen the uniformity of two held hands and deemed it mundane; too mundane for what they are together.

“I…” Isseya tries to speak — but the words catch in her throat. So of course Valdas kisses her again; of course he takes the words she cannot say.

“I know.” He rasps.

“You swear?”

“On my love for you,” he squeezes their hands again, “for both of you.”

_Promises like that are not easily cast aside._

* * *

“I’m still struggling to understand what makes this one instance different than all the others.” And Isseya has a point, really she does — but the growing petulance in her voice is admittedly unbecoming of someone with her rank and years. “He was a disgusting, pathetic little nuisance and — and surely the both of you can attest I was positively _tame_ that night.”

Valdas exhales through his nostrils long and slow. A pointed effort on his part to continue sipping his tea rather than speak his thoughts on the matter.

“Unlike the Ambassador to Bombay?” He’s the most recent in Cynbel’s memory and only because he still remembers the smell of fragrant oils, burning flesh, and tropical fruit. A wonderful chance to reminisce of their days trekking across the continent.

“He _touched_ me.”

“And lost those charming looks he so coveted for his troubles.”

Valdas’ cup _clinks_ against the saucer and draws silence from them both; has them waiting on bated breath.

“A fine memory to be sure, though made less so when paired with the hefty sum it cost our coffers to shut him up.”

Cynbel averts his eyes. Isseya refuses to regret her actions — rightfully so — but even she can’t deny the effort it took to smooth over that particular incident.

“My point remains. The Viscount and I exchanged words but he left _very much alive._ Call upon the other guests — force them to speak on my behalf.”

What made Cynbel think Isseya was behind the Viscount’s midnight swim in the first place? It didn’t take a genius to come to that conclusion. Revenge is to justice is to swift acts of cruelty — all things they love about her.

Valdas pinches his brow. “He was a guest of Her Royal Highness. She will want to see a culprit found and hanged.”

“Well that’s not so bad.” Cynbel himself has been hanged more times than he can count. But his relief is not shared among them.

“If Isseya is hanged we will have to flee London.”

And as always their Divinity is the most rational even in irrational hours.

“Worse —” the serving spoon in her hand doesn’t survive intact; is quickly replaced by the attending butler so used to their displays of frustration, “— if I am hanged he wins.”

“He is dead, dearest.”

“His ilk, those fucking skeletons with their skin that clings like wet lace to their outdated ideals of broodmares and sacrificial virgins.”

A word choice that has Cynbel adjusting his cravat. “You say that like being a sacrificial virgin was a _bad thing…”_ And its a sympathetic offer his God gives but he takes the outstretched hand nevertheless.

Isseya continues; “Hang _me_ and any woman who dares challenge those living mausoleums will suffer the same. And that I will not abide.”

Their God hums his approval. “I was wondering when you would find your righteous cause.” And her confusion only amuses him, but he takes pity and continues; “Thank about it. All of my attempts at freedom from my Maker—fruitless at times but not always—they have fueled me as much as your companionship. And Cynbel… well.”

“Such lofty compliments you bestow.”

“You tread dangerously, beloved mine. But you always have, haven’t you? Just as Gaius will always be snapping at our heels there will always be war and you haven’t exactly been subtle in your desire to seek it out.

“But nothing has held my Priestess’ interest for long enough to consume her, as we have been consumed.”

She hesitates.

“Now that I have found it I will burn London to the ground before I let it go.”

“We would not dare ask it of you. This is a _good thing,_ Isseya. Even shadowed in death as it is.”

“A little death isn’t a bad thing.”

It takes a moment but soon his lovers wear matching smiles; the pressure of what might come eased from their shoulders.

Truthfully it would solve much of their current strife if something were to rile the world. Something to silence the aristocracy and cull the herded masses. Something to distract the Yard so the Trinity may take care of this unpleasantness swiftly and quietly.

Cynbel would _kill_ for a war right now.

* * *

Idle hands supping on silver spoons have always fueled the world’s creativity. Didn’t matter where they went, what they saw, what was tearing nations and empires in half outside the safety of gilded walls.

The rich always find a way to make life interesting. Anything for them to feel something, even the barest spark, that their wealth no longer offered.

All those brimming vices, the pot so very near boiling over, paired with the stiff and reserved top of the English social class? Fucking _insanity_ — and the best kind, too.

All one had to do was pull back the velvet curtain to see every temptation succumbed to, every fantasy explored, every debasement given if only for a night — if only here. _What?_ They had to be known for _something;_ better sodomy and seduction than for their body count. Or… that was the plan.

“Forgive the interruption, my Lord,” says the butler with all the tact of an ass in a thoroughbred race, “but your presence has been requested in the library.”

 _How laughable,_ he thinks, and because the opium started to kick in mere minutes ago he does indeed laugh. Swings his head heavy with no crown in sight and looks up with utter disinterest.

“It’s not Whittaker, is it?”

“No my Lord.”

“Thank the Christian god.” Cynbel, however, makes no move to stand and take his leave. Instead he goes back to the far more enjoyable show of paint-smeared flesh closest to the window. At least his abandoned hobby was good for _something._

“Ahem, my Lord.” What are they paying him, again? Whatever it is it isn’t enough — such determination, such professionalism and decorum. Though his voice strains the third time; _“Please, my Lord.”_

“Cynbel just go with the fucking man,” growls Valdas from his confines; his eyes brighten red when his firstborn doesn’t immediately obey, “because at this rate I’ll have his head just to shut him up and Tobias has been so very good to us.”

“He’d be far better if he would let me enjoy the show in peace.”

There it is; the barest chip in Tobias’ almost _preternatural_ ability to stay composed. The young man nearly rolls his eyes but catches himself at the last breath of it — especially when he sees Cynbel has indeed abandoned his delights.

“Very well,” he relents, but Tobias’ relief is short-lived, “can’t you just invite whoever it is up here? I hate that I should be inconvenienced because someone didn’t bother to send word they were calling.”

That the butler’s hesitation is confusing doesn’t make it any less amusing to him. Not until Tobias forgoes his usual announcing tone to lean forward and practically whisper into Cynbel’s ear.

“Forgive me, my Lord, if I speak out of turn. But I would rather think you would want to keep a detective _far away_ from events such as…” he gives a shaky exhale, “such as these.”

His ease drops out from underneath him and makes Cynbel pull back; judging the truth in the familiarity of Tobias’ too-bright eyes. _A detective,_ though of course he should have suspected this it comes no less of a surprise.

The Trinity seek one another out about the width of the drawing room. Statues of flesh soft as silk but no less stone amidst passions abundant; their artist might call them _The Tragedy of Youth._ Or something equally waxing philosophical and waning in temperament.

Valdas nods almost imperceptibly. _Go._

Well there’s no use in staying now, anyway. Nothing kills arousal quite so easily as the police.

Just before Tobias opens the library doors Cynbel stops him with a touch to his shoulder. “Wait — did you sense anything about him? Is he…?”

With the high almost completely vanished it’s easier to see through Tobias’ glamor. He prefers to keep himself ignorant to the young man’s true face — even despite coming into a fair bit of contact with various sects of faerie outcasts through his long life there’s nothing quite so disturbing as when the shimmering veil of magic is parted and one catches the first glimpse of them. Cat-like eyes and too-high cheekbones on faces nearly always perfect and even.

Unlike in his earlier years it’s nearly impossible for the Trinity to come across an exile of the Fair Folk that meets even half their age but it isn’t impossible. Tobias is a mere three hundred at best — _“But time is so different in our lands,”_ he had told them, _“your ilk are so easily measured in generations, but we are less so,”_ — yet how his true face looks upon Cynbel now makes the vampire feel…

 _It makes him feel vulnerable._ The gall of him.

Cynbel does little to contain his relief when the butler shakes his head no. “The detective is entirely human, my Lord. His aura carries echoes of will-o’-the-wisps, but —”

“But they are likely from his interactions with the revenant at the Yard.”

“I thought the same. My Lord, if I may…” he hesitates; to see an elven face uncertain is an ominous thing, “he carries the burden of grief in his soul.”

“He has seen death, it doesn’t surprise me.”

But Tobias is insistent. “The grief is not his own. Mortals are dull things to be sure but few among them have been known to… _understand_ our world even if they are not conscious of it.”

There’s no masquerading it — its a warning; one Cynbel would be a fool to ignore. And of course he wants to hold them both back just a little longer, ask Tobias what exactly he’s trying to say, but he knows it would just be in vain. Powerful creatures were the fae. Powerful and utterly incapable of saying anything plainly and _not_ laced in a thousand metaphors.

So Cynbel just nods. “Thank you for telling me.”

Tobias’ glamour begins to shift back into place. Though his eyes may _look_ human now, though, he can’t see anything but the seelie truth. “The Trinity has been good to me. I could have found the same fate as the rest of my kind; wandering the foggy moors up North and giving the humans something to both fear and revere. But I have work, I have my own earned wealth… I would not see that taken from me so soon.”

 _As long as our interests align._ It’s the only thing about the boy Cynbel half-likes.

He gives the go-ahead and Tobias opens the doors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot has changed for the Trinity since last we saw them only two decades ago. But the world has changed and there are consequences when you don't really change with it. Comments and critique would be fabulous. Thank you for reading!


	11. IV.ii. A Gilded Cage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Though the Trinity would rather the death of Viscount Edwards fade into obscurity, an impassioned detective from Scotland Yard seems intent on opposing them. The favor of London’s elite is easily swayed and Cynbel has never been able to stand by while his beloveds suffer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **chapter content warnings:** language, possessive behavior, violence

“The Lord Cynbel Montes for you, detective.”

It doesn’t bode well that Detective Moray stands to greet him. It means he sat while he waited; it means he was patient despite the late hour. It means even knowing he could have been waiting some time for Cynbel’s arrival he chose not to behold any of the artefacts on display across the shelves or peruse the various books in their various languages all around him. Symbols of their age, their journeys and adventures.

All of that and Detective Moray chose to sit and wait. The reason for his visit far more important to him.

“Your patience is admirable,” says Cynbel; and perhaps Valdas might have done the civilized thing and apologized to the man for even needing it — but he is not Valdas, “to what do I owe this utterly _spontaneous_ visit, Detective…?”

“Detective Moray, my Lord.” He takes off his hat and offers Cynbel a hand that isn’t taken. “I hope you’ll forgive me for the hour — but I was told the evening would almost certainly find you home.”

“Indeed. If mildly inconvenienced.”

If he’s shocked at Cynbel’s abruptness he hides it well. “Again, my sincerest apologies.”

Again, Cynbel mutters an _“indeed”_ of acceptance.

Moray looks as if to speak but his eyes fixate on something at Cynbel’s back — he turns to see Tobias lingering, uncertain about fully closing the door.

“It’s all right Tobias. Perhaps you could make sure the kitchen has tea set for the guests. They should be finished soon and you know of the Lady Isseya’s _appetite_ after such entertainment.”

With a curt nod and bow Tobias takes his leave of them; closes the library doors and leaves Cynbel and the Detective very much alone.

Which seems to be all Moray was waiting for.

“It’s an unfortunate business, this. Certainly I would rather we meet under kindlier circumstances.” _Though,_ and Cynbel is quite certain of this, _he would rather they never met at all._ “But I assume you are already aware of the reason for my calling.”

Moray remains still so Cynbel seeks to show him exactly why that is a terrible idea. He begins circling the man; steps almost lazily around the space he knows so well and that makes it all the more easier on him when he has to hide the recognition that slips through his mask.

“Let’s assume I am _not._ What would you say then?”

“I would ask you not to lie to me, Lord Montes, since lying now might imply you’ll lie to me when we stop these games.”

Had Tobias not mentioned the man’s unusual aura Cynbel might not have thought anything of it. But now the thought is there and against all of his better judgment it festers; digs talons growing by the second into his doubts. _Does he know? Does he see?_

His eyes fall on a particular trinket, one with a memory that eases the tension in the Golden Son’s shoulders. He strokes the very tip of his finger over the curved brow of Isseya’s _masque._ “You’re here regarding the death of Viscount James Edwards.”

“I’m here regarding the Viscount’s _murder,_ yes.”

There’s a victory in correcting the enemy. Moray wears it with every word. “Care to explain how you came to know the Viscount was deceased?”

Cynbel snorts; throws back a simpering, pitying smirk. “When you accrue a certain amount of wealth, Detective, the only thing worth any value becomes information. That and England’s aristocracy are a bunch of horrid gossips.” When he laughs, he laughs alone.

“I don’t find the murder of a personal guest of Her Royal Highness Queen Victoria to be a laughing matter, Lord Montes.”

“You never had the displeasure of meeting the man, then.”

“What makes you think that?”

“If you had, you’d be laughing too.”

Moray’s nostrils flare. He’ll hand it to the mortal; he’s doing remarkably well at keeping his composure.

There’s a reason more often than not Valdas is the one handling any sort of negotiation or debate. Cynbel just prefers to insult. 

“That seems to be the general opinion of the late Viscount, unfortunately. But this is the Queen’s Realm and even men such as he… those who seem to prefer status to moral character, that is to say, are deserving of a life. And when that can no longer abide, I am duty-bound to seek justice for him.”

Pretty speech — wasted though.

“That’s how you have spent the day — building a case on his _lack of character?”_ he asks.

“Nothing so bureaucratic. What I’ve been doing is piecing together his last night seen alive.” And imagine the vampire’s surprise when he looks to glare at the back of Moray’s matted dusty hair and instead finds them face-to-face. “And judging by your reaction, my Lord, you have a good guess as to when that was.”

Without looking, as though his hand was seeking home, Cynbel feels the texture of a rusted hilt and allows himself to grasp it firm. Well within view of Detective Moray; who finds himself torn between looking at the intent in his eyes and the weapon that could seek it out.

The quickening of a heartbeat is music to his ears. “What are you?” He whispers soft, curious still and not yet demanding. “Really, what?”

The detective chooses incorrectly, as if he hopes to stare down every year that gazes upon him. “I don’t understand the question.”

“Now who’s lying?”

“Lor—”

“Once more; _what. are. you?_ That you would vex a creature like Tobias so, that you would care so much about a man who was, truly, so very little.”

But even when Moray puffs out his chest and brings himself to his full height he still has to look _up._ “I still can’t quite grasp your meaning… but it is my duty to carry out the Queen’s laws.”

“And that would include…” He looks the mortal up and down, takes in every fragile piece of him and he’s _hot, scalding, burning on the inside._ Red-faced with his blood boiling and it makes Cynbel want to cut him open just to see if he can leech out some of that warmth for himself, for his beloveds. He could — it wouldn’t take but a twitch — just one muscle and he could… “apprehending his killer — no matter the cost.”

Moray exhales. Cynbel drinks in the vindication on his breath.

“Yes.”

Funny how the Queen’s laws were so contradictory to the laws of nature; of the hunt. About as funny as it is that the Queen’s laws were very much in place and yet there was still a murder and still a killer to be found. 

_Dress a monster up all you want… he will still be monstrous._

Cynbel releases his grip on the dagger slowly; tucks a few strands of golden-spun hair away from his temples and behind his ear. “You’ve pulled me from my guests long enough, Detective Moray. After a long days’ efforts you ought to rest your head. We all have to sleep some time.”

_Is that a threat?_

_Why, of course. Was I not being clear?_

“I’ve yet to even begin my questioning,” Moray protests. But there’s no reticence to it. _The rabbit that dives into the fox hole and wants free._

And even if the man found the dark corner to where his confidence had scurried it didn’t matter. Cynbel already has the service bell ringing in hand. “Trust me when I say your life will be longer for it.” One of the numerous benefits of an elven butler — Tobias has the library doors opened before Moray can even open his mouth.

Cynbel nods him along. “Tobias the hours seem to have caught up with Detective Moray. Call up the driver to take him home, will you?” Tobias already has Moray’s coat on his arm. Delightfully efficient.

“Lord Montes I don’t really think that’s your —”

“On the contrary I would hate for a _new_ detective to return seeking _your_ justice. Though… perhaps he might surprise me. Perhaps he might send word before he comes to call.”

With natural fae charisma Tobias eases the detective into his coat; even takes the man’s hat from his hands and fixes it proper on his head. “If you’ll follow me sir,” not that Moray’s being given much of a choice — it doesn’t stop him from shuffling his feet as he departs.

And Cynbel is there up until the last step. He’s there when Moray turns around as if to catch one last glimpse of his own grave.

“Expect me tomorrow, Lord Montes.”

“Good night, Detective Moray.”

He closes the door in the man’s face.

* * *

“YY-You can’t do this!” Whittaker squeals not unlike swine; which is fitting. He looks around with spectacles askew desperate — hoping _one_ of the constables patrolling the streets outside the building will hear him; save him.

They don’t. In fact — one even turns slightly from his post to catch glimpse of them. His eyes glint in the shadow from the lamppost overhead.

Whittaker waits for rescue on bated breath. It doesn’t come; the patrolman resumes his post as though it never happened.

And because Cynbel is, has been, and always will be a hunter he can’t help but take the opportunity to revel in his victory.

“See, _worm?_ I can do what I want with you.” Unwilling to tempt fate, however, he quickly resumes shoving the stumbling man down the steps and out to the waiting carriage on the street.

“This is illegal! I h-have rights!”

The revenant’s struggle is fierce if in vain. Black-veined hands scrambling desperately at the flesh of Cynbel’s hands. He even manages to take a chunk of skin with him but it grows back before the sensation even registers. And Cynbel lets him; finds this side of the normally cowardly thing to be the only thing about him worth respecting.

“Have some fucking dignity man, and calm yourself,” the vampire grumbles as he gives Whittaker’s lowered head one final shove into the vehicle before he steps in himself, “you’re scaring the bloody horses.”

The ride back to the Estate has never felt longer but at least there’s entertainment in it. He leans back and watches every attempted spell, hex, and display of physical force that the mortician tries to open the cab doors but one by one they fail. Each new attempt is less fulfilling than the last, and eventually he sinks into his seat despondent; forced to do nothing but accept the uncertainty of the night’s events.

At least it makes for less of a struggle once they arrive.

“Welcome back my Lord,” Tobias greets them at the door; works quickly to take his coat but refuses to touch the foul black magic that keeps Whittaker bound to his withering skin. “I see your outing was a fruitful venture, despite your tardiness.”

“Come now — he’s a slippery creature.”

“I agree, however Lord Montes requested I mention it anyway.”

“This is _kidnapping,_ sirs!”

The look Cynbel and the butler exchange is brief but telling. “Of course it’s kidnapping,” the vampire agrees, “I would have thought that obvious.”

“Detective Moray —”

“— can do nothing for you here.”

They may be running late but Cynbel pauses to take it in. That withering moment when Whittaker no longer just accepts his situation but understands it; the danger he is in.

_Succulent, truly._

They’ve switched places in the library when Cynbel enters with their prisoner in tow. Valdas now occupies the couch, cuts an imposing figure with the hearth in full flame behind him. And surely there have been myths woven about the way the lights of the flickering flames catch on Isseya’s face where she sits opposite; the high-backed chair behind Valdas’ desk her throne bound in red leather.

“It’s been too long, Whittaker, welcome back to the Montes Estate.” Valdas closes his book — one of his personal journals Cynbel notes absently — and uncrosses his legs. Settling himself in comfortably. “We appreciate your agreeing to meet with us this night.”

The revenant snarls, makes the mistake of echoing the veil in his words; “I am being held here against my will! If you think this won’t go unpunished, you —”

Isseya cackles wildly and cuts him off. “And who will be doing the punishing, _you?_ Didn’t you already attempt to sick your demonic master upon us once and fail miserably?”

While the mousy man stutters over his threat Cynbel seeks home at his God’s side. He drapes across the length of the couch and lets his head take respite in Valdas’ lap. The fingers that wind into his hair do so without thought and he hums content in gratitude.

The doors close with Tobias on the other side. Whittaker swallows; trapped among them.

“Why have you brought me here?” he asks.

Valdas instead offers a question of his own. “Why do you _think_ we’ve brought you here?”

The revenant glares at Cynbel with resentment in his burning eyes.

“You either plan on threatening me until I cover up the Viscount’s death, or you seek to punish me because I have not already.”

Isseya looks impressed. “Good to know not _all_ of your brain has rotted away in your death.”

“You know I am fully preserved.”

“So long as you provide flesh for your demon master, yes,” Valdas combs through his lover’s golden tresses absently, “I wonder how quickly such circumstances would change were that no longer the case.”

It makes Whittaker blanch. “You—You would, what, have me sacked?”

“Does the city police _sack_ those who go missing?” Isseya asks. “That seems a tad unprofessional of them.”

 _Go missing._ She says it so casually while the look on her face is anything but. Whittaker looks like he might faint.

Where his head rests Cynbel can feel his Divinity’s legs tense; the moment before the cobra strikes. “You have already burned your bridges with us, revenant. My only regret is that our arrangement wasn’t consummated by signature.”

It makes the Golden Son look up, drawing Valdas’ attention. “You have nothing to regret my Holy One. We held up our end of the bargain.”

“You’re right, Cynbel, we have,” to Whittaker; “haven’t we? Poor little Hamish Whittaker, the worm who falls in love with the bodies he penetrates, who fancied himself a necromancer only to run afoul of a soul devourer on an eldritch plane.

“You would happily caress the dead but taking a life was too much for your delicate constitution. Did we mock you for it—perhaps. But did we turn our back on you? Did we leave you to be consumed for all eternity by your demon master? Or did we offer you a mutual exchange of services in all our _generosity?”_

The worst of it—and this the whelp knows—is the Made-God speaks nothing but the truth.

“He asked you a question.” Isseya says — and will expect nothing less than an answer.

“I… did believe, at first, that our arrangement was equitable.”

“You accuse my Divinity of deception?”

“The balance has shifted. The Viscount — you were sloppy! I shouldn’t be punished because you were sloppy!”

 _That’ll do it._ To no one’s surprise but Whittaker himself he ends up mewling on his back, the desk’s contents strewn across the floor and a vengeful vampiress crouching over him in determined bloodlust. There’s something extremely attractive about seeing her carnal side still in her evening gown with bustle and all, Cynbel thinks with a smirk.

“Isseya, darling mine, please,” comes Valdas exasperated voice over his head, “those books are irreplaceable originals… a little care never hurt anyone.”

“It’s hurting _me!”_ Whittaker wails. A nasal, grating sound that has Isseya squeezing his throat for silence.

“You want _sloppy?_ I’ll give you _sloppy._ I’ll paint the walls with your blood and stretch your skin into a new canvas. Pluck those strange little eyes of yours and wear them as baubles around my neck. _That_ seems _sloppy.”_

But she paints a pretty picture.

Valdas clarifies for her; “The late Viscount is not among _our_ dead, revenant.”

“Learn the difference between _sloppy_ and _careless,_ worm… quickly.” She backs off, though, and when he recovers Whittaker scrambles back onto his feet.

“You’re…” he’s dangerously close to losing his glasses to the momentum of his turning head as he tries to take in the Trinity as one, “You’re lying.”

“We have no reason to lie.”

“You have plenty reason! The—The investigation! The detective; the Queen! His killer has a noose at the Tower all ready and knotted.”

“Funny that he mentions the detective…” Cynbel’s words are broken off by exploratory fingers seeking his lips, his tongue; he gives all that and more and is rewarded with Valdas’ proud smile, “you know… he said something—Moray—that I can’t seem to get out of my head.”

“What was that, beloved?”

“He said that someone had suggested to him the hour best to find us here at the Estate.”

His next words Cynbel says only when Whittaker dares meet his eyes. “I wonder who told him that.”

If he held any final, limp shred of hope that he would be leaving the Montes Estate, Whittaker spends the silence that follows coming to terms with the futility of it.

The are the Trinity; the lovers known as _Les Trois Amants,_ the Children of the Made-God Valdemaras, their reputation spread in languages no longer spoken.

And they show no mercy.

* * *

Whatever creature Detective Moray is—if any at all—he is not the kind that can smell Whittaker’s blood lingering on Isseya’s hand when he takes it politely.

Her lovers can.

“Rumors of your beauty have been greatly understated, Lady Montes,” he says. And they both play their roles expertly; he the polite and charming Englishman, she the lady he charmed.

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” she lies; and takes Valdas’ hand to bring him forward too, “may I present the Lord Valdas Montes.”

Moray is as quick to falter as he is to recover. Looks between Valdas and Cynbel with a growing confusion; a kind they are all too familiar with. “A pleasure, my Lord. I — forgive me — I was under the assumption…”

Valdas who cuts him off before he can say any more—as he always must. “You are forgiven. Shall we, detective? We have a rather pressing engagement tonight.”

“But we always have time for Scotland Yard,” Isseya adds, though whether or not he believes her is unclear.

While Detective Moray may never call it such it is an interrogation, plain and simple. He meets them in their home because he thinks it will bring them comfort; lull them into security among familiar possessions and company. It is a move as bold as it is tactical, and makes Cynbel’s suspicion of him grow all the more.

He asks them to recount the events of the last time they saw the Viscount. Clearly he would prefer they do so separately but he has none to blame but himself in that they do not.

“And when your guests left for the evening, what happened?”

Cynbel shifts; covers it up with a crossed leg. Isseya reaches and meets Valdas’ hand in the middle. Moray notices, but makes the smart choice and says nothing of it.

“It had been a… tiresome affair. We called it an early night.”

As vague as Valdas’ answer is… it’s enough. Enough for Moray to round on Cynbel—at a speed which he seems to have just been _waiting_ to do—and asks him the same question.

 _They always assume._ That Valdas speaks only for himself and his Lady. But she is not his. She is _theirs._

“Would you believe me if I said I went to confession?” is Cynbel’s snide remark; one he will certainly pay for later if the look Isseya gives is anything to go by.

“Is that what happened?”

“Of course not.”

“Then —”

“If you could instead indulge me this,” comes Valdas to his rescue, “how exactly was the Viscount killed?”

At first Moray seems ready to decline answering. Makes sense, really, that he wouldn’t want to give those he suspects of committing the crime the answer. But the children of Valdemaras exchange soft, almost secret glances and know it isn’t so.

Valdas has always had a way with the world. A magnetic personality; they would call it these days. And indeed he is charming when he needs to charm, threatening when he needs to threaten. But it is certainly more — more than Cynbel and Isseya could even possibly understand. More than they could resist.

He has complete control of self. Something not even his lovers have achieved in their long lifetimes. And when one masters themself utterly it is but a matter of time before one can master others.

Their Lord and Light—shining fucking beacon of composure and predatory propriety that he is—eases his features into a smile. And Moray is lost.

“The late Viscount’s autopsy didn’t reveal any signs of a physical attack.”

“Yet you just told us he was murdered.”

“He was.”

“Then how?” Valdas asks again, “Unfortunate as it may be I would not be surprised if Edwards went for a swim on his own.”

The very implication of it seems to bring the detective back to himself, bring him back into the room and out of the will of the Made-God from sheer repulsion. “What you suggest is blasphemy, Lord Montes.”

Cynbel shrugs. “A little blaspheming is good for the soul.”

“Not at the risk of eternal damnation.”

“He was damned already.”

The library goes intimately still. With no fire in the hearth and no wind to make the lamp candles flutter it very well could have been — the four of them frozen. Titled _A Woman’s Weapon._

But three sets of ears pick up on the quickening of Moray’s heart, how his blood pounds through the body. That he looks so _vindicated,_ his eyes seemingly with a new hunger as he takes in Isseya, takes in her words… Cynbel readies himself to strike.

“What makes you say that, Lady Montes?”

“All men are.”

“You mean to say _‘all men who cross you’_ are, do you not,” The look she gives him is sharp; seen before in the deaths of millions, “and would you extend that to your husband or your… companion?

“I should hate to think that the lives of a young and affluent couple — or anyone, truly — would be sent into disarray by an… impassioned mistake.”

Valdas holds her back. She loathes him for it to be sure but they all know it’s the right thing to do. He is always, of the three of them, able to remain calm at moments like these.

Until he doesn’t.

“Detective Moray I do believe your stay in my home has run its course.”

Moray’s mistake isn’t getting up and fleeing right then. “I would think that a member of the House would only want to aid me in my investigation.”

“So you would think.”

“Are you claiming you do not?” The men exchange cool looks — maybe Detective Moray is a skilled man of his practice; but that matters little now. He’s practically branding himself for murder.

“Detective.”

“Yes, Lord Montes?”

“Get the fuck out of my house.”

The growl of his voice is felt in their bones. Even when he threatens things like their tongues or their lives — both of which are his, have been his utterly from the moment they met — the Children of Valdemaras do not _fear_ their Made-God. Not in the traditional way of fear. But there has always been an almost indiscernible difference between fear and holy reverence.

Tobias shows the detective out this time much in the same way as before. Clipped and curt, everything but shoving the mewling mortal creature out onto the steps and into the cold.

They hear his protests through the walls but do not leave the sanctuary of the library. They fold their Made-God between them and ease him in the ways only they know how. It works and it doesn’t. Valdas is eased and he is not. A tension straddling a dangerous edge all the way until Tobias comes to alert them of the approaching dawn.

“Come,” they ask of him, “rest.”

And the smile he gives is as forced as it is weary. They do not blame him for it. “I have much to contemplate. I’ll join you soon,” when he kisses their knuckles his beard tickles their skin, “I promise.”

Though they can do nothing but obey Cynbel and Isseya don’t find the luxury of sleep. Not without him.

* * *

Moray does not return the next night, or the night after that. The Trinity know they are not rid of him; they aren’t fools. But the idea of easing back into their lives is an appealing one. They’ve grown complacent.

But word of Viscount Edwards’ murder spreads. Times are prosperous, the Queen is well-liked; there is nothing else for the wealthy of England to do but speak of that which they do not know.

_“He was always a kindly man.”_

_“I heard it was an unsavory affair — that he was caught bedding the help.”_

_“The poor Viscountess…”_

And the irony of it is the Viscountess Edwards — a woman rather soft around the edges; no doubt built up from all of her years having to weather the harsher bits of her husband — is the only one who seems the least bit disgruntled at her husband’s passing.

“Where has she been hiding all this time?” asks Cynbel over the morning tea.

“No one knows for certain; the Viscount was a private man.”

“Unless he was in public.”

The look Valdas gives their darling girl is chiding but with no heat behind it. Not like she’s telling a lie. “All I know is she’s finally come to London under personal invitation of Her Royal Highness.”

“For what,” Isseya looks up from her careful notes, “a period of mourning? The poor woman has the rest of her life to feel the weight of that on her. She should be grateful.”

“But who towards?” His lovers frown at it but they know they can’t call him out for it; Cynbel is only speaking the mind they all share. “Whittaker is dead and his master has paid no retribution to us. In what little time I had to engage the corpse I found no bite marks or wounds.”

“Had bruising settled in?”

“None that I could tell. Who at your college took over his place at the Yard?”

“Some cockwipe of a man — the Viscount and he would’ve got on.”

And while keeping their revenant urchin alive would have been the most beneficial course for their current predicament of unknowns… some things they simply could not abide. The flagrant disobedience of a lesser creature among them.

Still… Cynbel finds himself regretting such retribution _so swiftly_ the longer this goes on.

Because the longer it goes on the more Detective Moray proves himself an adequate tactician indeed.

He confronts Valdas in person — follows him out of the carriage and up the steps to the House and does not waver even when his questions go unanswered. It is enough for a detective of Scotland Yard to continue interrogating a man with business among the chief political minds of the nation. When they kindly (wavering voices hesitant and unsure but they have to, _they have no choice in the matter)_ request that the Made-God sit idle until such a time that the investigation has ended, well, no one is surprised.

“Fools — obstinate cowardly fools!” Valdas calls them with a wrath that threatens to take the Montes house and half their block in London with it, “As though I did not sit with Cassius, with Brutus and Antony himself. They fear him more than they fear me? Their gravest mistake.”

And it keeps the Trinity on edge. It is meant to.

There’s a certain kind of anger that comes with always looking over ones shoulder; ready for the breath that comes down on the backs of their necks to turn into cold hands.

A fortnight following he comes for Isseya.

Lucky then that Cynbel has learned his lesson with her once and need not again; when she begins clawing through their boudoir of ancient belongings he knows to step _far_ back.

“Beloved, what happened?”

“I want to fillet him. String him up on ugly fraying rope and make him watch my work!”

Valdas is at his back, Cynbel can’t help his relief at their Maker’s touch. “Your words, darling, your words.”

She rounds on them with red eyes and shining cheeks. Immediately they take her into their arms and she does not resist because this is where they are safe; this is where they cannot be hurt. And outside of them here the world has hurt her so gravely.

“He took the college from me! Issued some—some fucking order and they have suspended my lessons until they are certain my name has been cleared. I’ll hang them too. Ugly, rotted fruit hanging in the Queen’s fucking gardens!”

This is her cause — something she has been denied for far too long — and Moray didn’t even have the dignity to show his face as he stole it out from under her.

Whatever plans he had in store for Cynbel; Cynbel the lonely one, Cynbel the outlier, Cynbel the young bachelor whose place no one quite understands… he doesn’t get the chance to enact them.

Cynbel does not let him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Objectively, Cynbel’s most dramatic overreaction yet is to come. But he’s never been one for subtlety. And his lovers... are getting a little tired of it. Comments and critique would be fabulous. Thank you for reading!


	12. IV.iii. What is a Trinity Without Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cynbel tackles a new world problem with old world solutions, though Valdas and Isseya are less than pleased with the result. The world may seek to divide them but who would they be if they let it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **chapter content warnings:** language, violence, violence against a partner, possessive behavior, death

“I wouldn’t go in there if I were you.”  


The vampire laughs at the steady barrel of Moray’s pistol now level at his face. Laughs and laughs and watches that surety slip with every passing moment.

“If you think one crime less than another Lord Montes, let me assure you that _breaking into the home of a detective of Scotland Yard and threatening his life_ is much the same severity as your current charges.”

“Current charges,” Cynbel feigns innocence and terribly so, “what current charges? I was unaware you had yet to _formally_ accuse us of _anything.”_

He takes pity on the poor man’s mortal eyes; takes the withering end of his cigarette and tosses it behind him to the hearth and lets it flicker alight. The room is steadily cast in the fire’s warm glow and leaves Cynbel framed in shadowy silhouette before it.

The perfect spot to watch every expression that flits across the detective’s weary features.

“This madman’s act will give me more than enough credibility to do so.”

 _Oh will it now?_ Cynbel picks at his fingernails absently. “Fascinating, though, that you do not ask _how_ I came to know where you lived, _how_ I found my way inside, _why_ I’m here…”

“In my experience there are men on this earth who act without reason. I assume you are — one… of them…”

Watching Moray’s revelation is a rare delicacy. How his pistol wavers to the left slightly when he turns his head so harsh Cynbel hears the _crack_ of old joints at the neck. Lingering, then, on the closed doorway behind him.

“My wife —”

“She’s resting, detective, and rather uneasily so. I suggest you keep your voice down. If she awakens before she is ready you really won’t have any hope.”

Grief, it’s impossible to keep the glee from his words as he says them. If he won’t be placated with a war then this will do — however small a measure.

But Moray doesn’t listen and advances on the door. Which Cynbel can’t have — it will ruin _everything._ The moment Moray grasps the door knob the vampire is behind him, enveloping him. Holding him as intimate as a lover as their cradled hands slowly pull back from the metal. “It’s for the best…” he whispers; the last act before he pulls back.

When he recovers from his stupor Moray advances; presses the cold metal barrel between Cynbel’s eyes. _As if it would do a thing._

“What have you done to her?”

“Didn’t I tell you to speak low?”

_“What have you done to my wife?!”_

_Thunk._

The noise is soft but the silence echoes loudly. Quickly Cynbel bats the pistol aside. It clatters to the wooden floor and shocks Moray enough to take heed of his words and step away from one danger and towards the other.

He sighs. “Now look what you’ve done. She could have had a chance.”

The implication makes Moray’s eyes widen. “If you have harmed her I will personally see you hanged.”

“As if that would take —” Cynbel rolls his eyes as if to say _really, this again_ and listens for any sign of life on the other side of the door.

There is. Faint, yes, but there. Smelling of rot and foulness and _craving_ as only the newborn do. It skitters closer and closer, away from the bed where Cynbel had laid her to rest.

“You have only yourself to blame.”

 _“That_ lies with her killer!”

“Really? Do you think I could have gotten to Mrs. Moray had you been here with her; tonight, if at all?”

Moray’s voice falters when the first _thud_ sounds at the door. For once the greater threat is not he, Golden Son of Valdemaras, but the _thing_ on the other side. Some innate, _mortal_ part of Moray knows this.

“Trust me, detective, I know better than most the toll years can take on a marriage.” Though if they were here they would ream him for such an implication — so Cynbel corrects himself. “Now of course I’ve never been married, myself — we always agreed such binding contracts were just that; contracts. Only recently have they become such tawdry affairs and those too we’ve deemed too much for our unique relationship. For what we are to one another.

“I can’t help but wonder, though, how different things would be had you taken the time to discuss and repair your relationship with your dear wife. And not just for you— We would not have this meddlesome investigation. My beloveds would not have their hard-earned dalliances in this lifetime ripped out from under them. Your wife would still be alive.

“All you had to do was _talk._ Which… for the likes of men like us—men of action, that is to say—can be the hardest thing in the world to do.”

 _“Really,”_ Moray scoffs and his voice is thick, emotive; tearing him between the impulse to act and the desire for that which is long gone, “I’ve found that you never _shut up.”_

It makes Cynbel laugh again, wagging his finger; “You know I’ll give you that one. You gentlemen think murder such a grisly business but I find it brings out my inner poet.”

To Cynbel, to the door. To Cynbel again, to the door again. Moray reminds him of frightened game. “You—You admit it then? You confess?”

“On the contrary; I figured you were so determined to pin murder on my lovers and I… that I might as well give you a murder to validate your claim.”

“Y-You —”

“What I did _not_ do, detective, was murder the Viscount. Not I, nor Isseya, nor Valdas. Fucking ill timing, that’s all it was. I couldn’t give less of a fuck who actually did the deed — he deserved it for how he spoke to my darling.

“Your _justice_ is linear. I’m here to show you the truth; that justice is like everything else in this world. It is a part of the eternal cycle. I’ve bent it into place for you — you’re welcome.”

The banging on the door resumes and with it the lowest, barest of growls. Something sharp eats away at the already thin wood on the other side and soon it _will_ break free.

Sweat rolls down Moray’s temples in teardrops of fear. The sight of it is euphoric. “Turning these days is a trickier process than it once was. For everyone else, of course. I had thought that the purity of my blood would be enough to compensate for your wife’s tragically _fragile willpower_ but I guess not.”

So many words he struggles to understand and piece together. Apparently Cynbel is going to have to walk him through it.

“When a Turning goes foul,” he continues, “it still takes — more than it should. It takes the soul, the mind, the things that make a person who they are. And the thing left behind is truly ugly indeed.”

With a _crack_ the door before them begins to splinter. Moray jumps at the sound. Needle-thin shards falling to the floorboards growing in number. The creature on the other side smells the blood so close and only grows in determination and fervor.

Fear paralyzes him. It runs sour down his trousers but Cynbel holds on because this is the most fun he’s had since they stepped foot in London.

“What… what is left behind?” Moray asks, his voice a whisper.

“They call it a Feral.”

And so the time for words passes. Cynbel holds Detective Moray through every fit and spasm of his body; the humanity inside desperate to flee the void it can feel through the growing hole in the door. Large enough for a taloned hand to scrape through; greying skin and veins bulging black along the length of it.

The door doesn’t last much longer after that.

* * *

Given their recent trials he doesn’t expect to be welcomed home to praise, to affection, to lust. They are — for the first time in his memory — too weary for that.

Not so weary enough, though, that they are made weak.

Valdas backhands his firstborn’s cheek with enough force to send him flying. He collides with the far wall, feels wooden frame and plaster yield to the weight of centuries, but still falls.

Isseya looks for a moment as if to speak, but changes her mind at a glance from her God.

But Cynbel’s still riding _so fucking high_ from the thrill of it all that he can’t understand why his Maker is mad at him to begin with. He can still taste Mrs. Moray’s blood on his tongue, feel the detective’s sweat oily on his palms. The memory of it makes him laugh — though it barely lasts when the same hands that caress him lift him up by the throat again.

“You would mock me now?! Insufferable, ungrateful —!”

“Ungrateful?!” Cynbel spits the word bloody on Valdas’ cheek. “It is born from gratitude that I would do this for you, for the both of you! As I would for no one else!”

“Don’t color your words so, Cynbel,” mumbles their darling from her chair and he can’t fucking _believe_ the look she gives him is angry too— _how are they angry with him?!_ “You may say you’ve done this for us but the root of them is a selfish one.”

Valdas grasps harder; pushes him into the wall until it, too, starts to crack like the hole beside it. “Do you never think about the consequences of your actions? That _I_ have to clean up the messes you wreak on the world?”

“In _your name,_ Valdemaras!”

“In no name but your own!” Blood runs down Cynbel’s forehead and stings at his eyes but not enough to spare him the anguish and _hatred_ that ghosts over his beloved’s faces.

He seemingly comes back to sense. Enough to drop Cynbel to the floor and cross the room in a breath; yet not to Isseya and the wounds that choice makes show gaping and festered.

“You are not so deluded, Cynbel, that you can’t see it,” he continues low as he watches the other vampire ease himself off his knees, “and perhaps the fault lies with me that I humored you for so long. That I didn’t punish you enough — that you thought you could risk what is mine time and time again…”

He always thought no word could ever cause the same pain as a blade, and hates that it is _now_ that he is proven wrong.

“Forgive me, but you punished me a great many ti—”

“No.”

He looks to his God confused. “What?”

“No, Cynbel, I will not forgive you this time.”

It leaves him gaping and confused. Angry, scared; alone on an island of his own making. One they have all made for themselves where they are, for the first time, apart both physically and… and everywhere else.

Isseya shifts in discomfort. “Valdas, brash though he is… Cynbel has always acted _for us.”_

“Has he?”

“I have tried.”

The laugh he gets in reply is harsh and clipped and choked in the throat Cynbel knows so well. “Tell me you _tried_ to show restraint at the detective and I will have your tongue. You reveled in it; fear, pain and suffering. You have always reveled in it.”

Cynbel raises his chin not in defiance, but in pride. “And you have loved that about me before.”

“Indeed — but you’ve let it blind you. Do you think you’ve _gotten away with this?_ That that man’s slaughter will not go uninvestigated and unpunished?!”

“There’s nothing left of him to be investigated.”

“And the Order will not seek answer for this, I assume. Because you took such great care in your actions. In your _beloved actions.”_

“Now you border cruelty,” snaps Isseya, but his red-eyed stare wilts her again, “my Holy One.”

Which isn’t fair, not in the least. Throw him against walls, into furniture, out into the sun for all he cares but to turn that ire onto Isseya as though she had led him to the Moray home by the hand…

Cynbel groans as he stands. Feels bones slot back together and something in his spine dislodge itself from where it ought not to be. He wipes the blood from his eye though the cut is already healed. “Do not look to her that way.”

The audacity leaves Valdas bewildered. _“What did you say?”_

“What else should I have done?! Should I have been content to watch you both suffer? For weeks I have stood idle while that feeble cretin has torn everything you’ve built here to pieces. I might as well have been drowning in your blood — and from my own hands! Hands that are _yours,_ Valdas, now as they always have been.”

“I did not command my hands to _act.”_

“You have never needed to before,” Cynbel’s voice cracks as if to prove his heart is breaking even if they cannot see it, “just like I’ve never _not_ done everything in my power and much beyond to ease your pain… to bring you joy.”

“Joy,” whispers Isseya, “would have been staying here. But we cannot now, Cyn’, you know that don’t you?”

“Our lives have never been _stagnant,_ Iss’. Why would we not move on from here as we have from any other place in the world?”

 _“Because the world is no longer the same!”_ The Made-God’s voice booms through the house. It is something they feel down to their very bones and further still. It silences them, sees them scolded children not yet defiant enough to dare risk their lives should he continue.

“Perhaps a century ago, two, _ten_ even this would have been the answer. I would have rewarded you for it. But as the world changes so we must adapt to it to survive. Have you learned _nothing?_ This place has been our greatest trial so far and you, my darling Cynbel, have never disappointed me so utterly in your failure.”

 _So many firsts this wretched city has wrought._ Their first blows, the first night without familiar comfort. Their first true human threat and one that Cynbel had felt warranted swift action to please them; to _save_ them.

And now… this.

“I—I am… I am not made for civility, Valdas; my love. Please do not ask me to be anything more or less than what I am.”

“I love you too much to do otherwise.”

He doesn’t look up — he can’t. Head cast down shoulders bearing the weight of their loathing towards him in that moment. And he is not irrational—he knows this is not something they have harboured for him for a time. But it is not a knowledge that numbs the pain of it.

Valdas approaches him with even and measured steps. Mortal steps at mortal speed; as if to give him chance to run should he wish. He could never. _He could never._

From the edges of his sight he catches when Valdas kneels— _his Divinity on bended knee_ —and tries to take Cynbel’s face in hand. Neither man can tell who of them trembles more but they do so as they do everything. _Together._

The sight of tears on his Maker’s face is agony still.

“I love you _far too much_ Cynbel,” he repeats just as broken, just as wounded, “to sit back and let you burn yourself with the flames of the past. That is what lesser vampires do — that is what those who are not _my blood_ do. They relish on days in glory and the world leaves them to history, to places like the _Musea Sanguis._

“You are no relic of rust. You are mine; my Golden Son. And I would not see you join the ranks of those beneath us — not when I know it would lead to your death.”

The noise that tumbles from him is animal and wretched. But Valdas takes it with love; wipes his thumbs over tear-tracks and looks as if to kiss him for apology but he hesitates — unsure. And in the one thing they have always been certain of.

The shadow darkening his eyeline grows and Cynbel feels a much surer touch at his hands where they rest on his lap. Fingers the barest touch away from breaking.

“You risked your life tonight,” she chides lukewarm, “and even the thought hurts us.”

“It means nothing.”

“No —” says Valdas; firm like his kiss “— do not. You are _my blood—our blood_ —and that makes you so much more than _nothing._ For what _trinity_ is without three? The world will always seek to divide us, and men better than _Detective Moray_ have tried. We have weathered them all, remember? And we will weather them still.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because we are better. And if we are to survive every time the world changes then we must continue to be better. Even if it hurts us.”

Isseya’s cool touch fixes at his hair. Valdas uses his tongue to wet his finger and wipe away the blood he spilled. Cynbel can feel the regret in every soft stroke.

He’s paralyzed by the freedom of burden from their love.

“But what does it change? I—I cannot bring Moray back to life or ease the complications he caused your public lives.”

“No, and even if his death remains hidden he’s taken too much. We’ll have to leave within the season.” Honey-voiced Isseya has never been one to sugarcoat the truth. She doesn’t now, either. “And it will take me some time to forgive you for that, Cyn’.”

“As you see me suffering now I too saw you. And… and I could not take the pain of standing still.”

“Justify it for yourself all you want. What’s done is done.”

His God drags a worshipful touch over Cynbel’s features. “But it will never happen again.”

 _Say it,_ says the press of a thumb against his lips, _and mean it well._

“It will not, my love.” Because it is for them both.

* * *

They could not risk losing sight of such an important thing again.

But ideas are just that — there is nothing corporeal about them. Nothing they can hold in their hands beyond one another and what of when the world takes them far away again? Then how will they remember?

So Isseya suggests a portrait.

“We’ve never had the like before.”

“And for good reason,” Valdas blows the smoke of his cigarette up, up where it curls into the stagnant air above their bed and remains until it reaches the ceiling, “it has been in the best interests of our kind not to leave such permanent traces.”

“Tell that to Augustine.”

“I have. Of course he didn’t listen.”

“The _gall_ of you.”

His laugh is rich as he offers it to Cynbel, but their minx takes it before he has the chance. Teasingly she holds it out of reach, though really if she insists on keeping her leg thrown wide over his waist she will always be in reach, but it is light and it is fun and most important of all it is the best and safest he’s felt in a long time.

“Then we keep it with us.”

Isseya flicks ash on his bare chest at the suggestion. “I forbid it. No doubt you would insist the youngest carry it for the first century or two.”

“You know me so well!” She hits him— _hard_ —but it only makes him laugh harder.

“Don’t make me come over there and break you two up.” Valdas warns with little heat; though he _is_ amused by the way his Golden Son tries to push himself deeper into the mattress as though to make his space between them permanent.

“I so rarely get this, don’t take it from me just yet.”

“And why do you think that is?”

“Because you know it’s where I belong?”

Valdas snorts softly into his blond hair. “More like there’s never enough bed. Pull your limbs in tighter, darling.”

But he is Cynbel, the Golden Son, so he does quite the opposite. Valdas and Isseya give matching noises of protest and struggle to fight for their rightfully-earned spaces.

He will always prefer their laughter to their tears.

Tobias catches them discussing the finer details of such a portrait come the next sunset.

Cynbel’s main argument — vanity. “If by some rare chance this thing turns out favorably I would hate to look mortal upon it.”

But Valdas only shrugs. “Rather mortal than that which could serve as direct condemnation. Shame Signore Da Vinci passed last year — he detailed Augustine’s grim disposition quite well if I’m remembering correctly.”

“I wouldn’t stand for it even if he were.” Isseya beckons for the teapot and Tobias comes round quickly, though his soft laughter catches the three vampires by surprise.

“Something funny?” she asks, though it’s clear she couldn’t give a damn.

“You remind me of my cousin afar,” but does not let his musings detract from his work clearing the dining table, “back home, I should say. You see I had the mind to portrait every member of our house in my youth. They were wretched about it — I wasted a dozen canvases on the hair alone. Perhaps I could have finished in time had they not demanded I try again and again…

“I think I had but a mere few left to do… such things happen in families of a hundred or more. But my exile put a stopper in it.”

“Is there a point to this beyond you withholding my tea?” asks Isseya clipped and curt. Tobias quickly rushes back to her side with the teapot.

“I would be honored of the chance to take up the brush and palette again. Should you find the whimsy for it, of course.”

They have their painter, and the subjects willing. His payment, they decide as one, will be the Montes Estate.

Immediately Tobias refuses. “I could never! What would I do with all… _this?”_

“We will find safe storage for that which we covet. As for the house and the rest… Sell it for all I give a shit,” the Made-God replies, “I’m coming around to the idea of this painting being the only memory we claim from this place. We shall stay until it is complete and not an evening more.”

The following silence draws their attentions; to the pointed look their Maker gives Isseya. “Is there a meaning to that I’m missing?” she asks.

“I trust you will find a way to expedite your collegiate business within the time frame.”

“And if I cannot?”

Cynbel shrugs. “We find another college for you to attend. Switzerland, maybe — or Auvernal, I’ve always been fond of the border of Cordonia and Auvernal, forests there remind me of back when.”

Three weeks pass. Isseya might just well finish on time. Time they are already hoarding — and much of it not theirs to steal.

Detective Moray sought to slander them and he succeeded. Feeble and easily devoured as he had been, he still joins the ranks of the very few who have bested the Trinity throughout time.

Their drawing room parties are no more than fancies of things wistfully remembered. Shared in secret among those who knew but when left to the wild imaginations of the growing generation they quickly grow out of hand. Whispers of ritual sacrifice and demonic worship and how one young lady is convinced she saw the Lady Isseya Montes eat a beating human heart with her own eyes.

Though that could very well have happened. None of them can rightly remember.

It _is_ best they leave London. England too, for that matter. The entire ordeal may have been eclipsed by the London Summer Season but Isseya’s absence does not go undiscussed. 

“We cannot leave this godforsaken island soon enough,” is the first thing she says after returning from her final examination of autopsy, “I was just accosted by two wretched little birds. Do you know what they said to me?”

They can hear her all the way up to the drawing room; her lovers exchanging uneasy glances while Tobias helps adjust her hair for the portrait before coaxing her between them.

“What did they say dearest?” asks Valdas as he takes a kiss from her.

Cynbel takes one of his own. “And do they still breathe?”

“Indeed, though not for lack of _wanting_ to gut them,” she bats the pair of them away and back into position; the portrait was her idea but she loathes the process the most, “apparently the current word of mouth is that bastard Viscount yet lives and I ran away with him. _To France.”_

That particular sitting takes longer than the others. When it comes time to sleep she banishes them to the floor for their laughter.

But even with their combined years and experiences — though the Trinity did not know it they did not prepare themselves even the least for what it would look like when complete.

It is clear from the moment Tobias turns the canvas for their final critique that there is magic in every stroke.

They look…

 _They look exactly as he sees them,_ Cynbel thinks as he makes sure to mind the fresh paint and keep his touch just shy of them. His largest hesitation was that this portrait, like other likenesses of them over the centuries, would not show him what he sees with his own eyes. But today Tobias has proven it possible. More than that — he has made it real.

“Does it meet your expectations, Made-God? Is the trade fair?”

Valdas has to actually wrench his gaze away from it. “Indeed. Perhaps… imbalanced on _our_ part.”

With amusement Cynbel watches how their darling girl’s mouth opens and closes, opens and closes. Whatever witty remark or critique she had planned (and to think she did not would do her a disservice) simply will not do.

Finally she manages a reverent whisper. “You look as you did… in my mind. How I imagined the great God of Death Valdemaras and his Lover Risen from Mortality all those years ago. When I fell in love with you.”

 _Of course they only see the others._ The better parts of themselves. 

“Your compliments do me no credit. I realize just now even in your years you’ve probably not come across fae art. It all looks like this.”

Odd little thing, their fae butler. Perhaps one day, should their paths cross again, Cynbel might take it upon himself to discover what exactly sent the creature into exile — how he came upon London and if it was on purpose or otherwise that he slipped his way in among their staff. Or perhaps he is just glad to have not met the same fate as the rest of them.

“Nothing looks like this,” says Valdas — his lovers who agree, “a fitting thing to be our only memory of this place.”

“I’m glad to know I’ve done you justice, my Lords and Lady.”

_Odd little thing, indeed._

“Beyond so, Tobias,” _imbalanced_ though he indeed agrees, “if ever the unlikely event that we cross paths again should occur… call upon us, the chance to even this debt would be nice.”

Odd and funny — Tobias who has served them for years now, who knows the lengths they would go for their _together,_ and who has the audacity to say; “I think I should fit the Lordship Montes quite nicely.”

Ultimately the Trinity must suffer the sane decision of sending the few things they want to keep safe overseas to Isseya’s progeny and the _Musea Sanguis._ They pay handsomely for everything to be taken to the docks at night and care little of thieves. Anyone unlucky enough to steal from them won’t live long enough to enjoy the spoils.

Emptier and emptier, their house, until the painting is the last thing of theirs left.

When the paint has dried and morning light come to London, Tobias commits his final act under their service. He dons his hat and coat, tucks the painting rolled tight to rest in a display that once held Valdas’ champion sword under his arm, and summons the carriage to take him to the docks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next week: the time has come. I’ve been hyping up _”what happened to Cynbel_ for nearly a year now and... I can’t believe it’s finally coming out there into the world. I really hope the last part doesn’t disappoint, and brings the entire story together! Comments and critique would be fabulous. Thank you for reading!


	13. V.i. Men Who March Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #### Part V.
> 
> — Belgium, 1918. She made him promise to bring their love home. This was not their first war, it would not be their last—or so they thought. Cynbel's demons have finally caught up with him as a familiar face plays judge, jury, and executioner.
> 
> * * *
> 
> "Just this one," he promises them, "and I'll have my fix of war for a long time to come."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **chapter content warnings:** language, mild sexual content, violence, war (historical), bombing, blood, death

They kept him from the War as long as they possibly could.  


They punished him for it to be sure. Physically, emotionally; he skirted along the very edges of his promises to them and worse he knew what he was doing. When he plotted and planned and incited a War to span continents, nations, and history.

And they know there is no altruism in the way he begs them to let him go off to the battlefield. _“I deserve this as punishment,”_ he says but doesn’t really mean it, _“what kind of man would I be if I watched others die for the conflict I started?”_

 _“An alive one.”_ She had said. And he had agreed. They nearly didn’t let him because they knew forcing him to miss the entirety of his love letter to the twentieth century would be the final punishment to force him to get his act together.

But he shines so bright; their Golden love. And this time, like many times before, they are blinded.

They kept him from the War as long as they possibly could.

But it just wasn’t enough.

* * *

_Belgium, 1918_

They are supposed to be his regiment but they are strangers like any other. Food, cannon fodder; he’s called them so many things over the years and none of them pretty but they haven’t gotten any prettier so why should his words?

The poets say absence makes the heart grow fonder but the eyes a mite weaker. The poets can choke on their own tongues. A _s if he would not recognize a piece of his soul; even if he’s caked in layers of dirt so thick he can’t see a face._

But Valdas isn’t caked in dirt. The journey — and only by night as it’s been — shows in grime on his face but it’s so very clearly him that the noise he lets out is nothing at all like he planned.

Men who served together and have the incredible luck to have survived yet embrace as companions; as brothers. That’s what makes it all the more difficult for Cynbel to restrain himself as he runs towards the truck.

 _Aren’t you proud of me?_ Because he stands before Valdemaras towering over him like he always has but also so very different, so very changed. He’s been working on himself so they don’t regret letting him come to the front lines. _Do you see what I do and all of it for you?_

They cannot kiss here — and perhaps the older Cynbel would and just have peeled the eyes of the witnesses out for his trouble. So how they kiss it is with hands clasped together, soil from the leagues they have traveled apart folding into the lines on their palms. Heart line and fate line and all the other bullshit that has never kept them away from one another before. It certainly will not now.

Cynbel’s eyes flutter closed in euphoria. The hum of approval is low but Valdas knows he can hear it.

“When I got your letter…”

“You’ve taken too many hits, my love, if you think I would not come for you.”

Then those fingers are running through his hair — make him want to drop to his knees and pray as he has prayed every fucking day and every fucking night. Prayers old and righteous and to his God, his Valdemaras.

_Who else to champion a battlefield if not the divinity of death?_

When he opens his eyes it’s to the sight of his lover in strange reverence. “I joke of how war has changed you,” he answers of Cynbel’s unasked question, “but you _have_ changed, Cynbel.”

It makes him hesitant. “Does it suit you still?”

“It makes me wish we’d shipped you off sooner.”

Just like that. Like no time has passed at all. Cynbel grins.

The War could end right there and neither of them might notice. Cynbel wants to reach up, to touch him; wipe the tears from his Lord’s cheeks even if it dirties him further because nothing else matters.

And judging by the misting in Valdas’ eyes he feels very much the same way.

_“Oi, Claude!”_

The jagged French accent jars them both out of the world of _Him_ they had nearly been swallowed by. Cynbel is two thousand years old — he has the force of will to stop himself from shedding a damned tear, and thank the Made-God for that.

They don’t— _won’t, physically can’t, they cannot please cruel world do not demand it of them they would rather lose those hands if they remained together still_ —break away even as Cynbel turns to the source of the voice.

Fucking Frenchmen. No doubt even miles away Isseya’s still having a laugh that the _French_ were the only army they could forge him into.

“Have you got your new orders yet?” _He’s been suffering the language for seven months now, and each month more he’ll torture his darling girl so divine._

Another jerks his thumb to the back of the supply truck steadily filling up with eager alcoholics. “A couple of us were going for drinks, Claude — should we save you a seat?”

He doesn’t miss Valdas’ stifled laughter behind him. “Later, maybe.”

“Oh come now, _Claude,”_ purrs his lover’s voice low and decadent in his ear, “I could use a drink. All this travel has left me famished.” Of course he follows; as if he could deny his Divinity’s first request in months. And Valdas knows it.

They fall into familiar step. A quick glance is all it takes — has Cynbel reaching out the barest whisper of a touch to the inside of Valdas’ wrist. A touch he receives in kind.

He leans in to whisper low. “I would warn you of how much you’ll come to regret this but you’ll see it yourself soon enough.”

“Good to know you haven’t changed utterly.”

“You think I’m kidding.”

“I think you’re a touch dramatic.”

They are the last to step on and sit across the aisle facing one another. Valdas takes his opportunity when the truck’s heavy engine roars to life and fills the already acrid air with the choking perfume of _industry;_ “I seem to recall a vehement hatred of the name _Claude._ Didn’t Iss’ set you up as Philip, or Percy? Something with a _‘P.’”_

Cynbel nods reluctantly. “Yes, but when I got here I was… already missing the pair of you so much. You know I half thought about turning around and running back to the train?”

 _Good to know he can still surprise his beloved after all this time._ “No, I… really? And after all the moaning and begging you did to get here in the first place?”

“What can I say? I stepped one foot in Paris and was filled with nostalgia.”

Valdas leans back on his side of the bench. Conversation in various regional French all about them and now with human ears more at ease with the rumbling of their vehicle towards town. They trade looks, certainly they don’t need words.

When his God answers it’s in a familiar albeit old tongue. “Maybe I was wrong. Maybe this has changed you more than our beloved or I could have thought possible.”

“You’re being vague on purpose. My question remains the same.” _Please still want me. All of this — for you._

Their boots meet toe-to-toe on the plank floor. Another kiss only they share.

“Long gone, I think, are the days where change frightened me. I’m just glad to see they are gone from you as well.”

When he laughs Cynbel lets his head fall back against one of the canopy supports. That fear of progress did not go quietly; as they both well know. But of course he would if it would bring him back to them.

_Preferably with spoils like the wars of old._

* * *

His regiment is familiar enough with the pub by now (though were there any word for something smaller they would readily give it such) that they have claimed seats. Which leaves very little option for the men now dissolved into their company — Valdas included.

“Best you find somewhere else to sit.” Cynbel’s hand falls heavy on a burly man’s shoulder beside _his_ usual seat. From the meat of his muscle and the deep way his frown settles familiar in his features the man isn’t used to being the one asked to move.

His chair scrapes against the floor as he stands. A screeching noise that silences the rest of the company and leaves them waiting a little too eagerly for men who have their daily helping of violence.

But Cynbel is immobile, his smile unwavering and unnerving as he continues to look down. The burly man’s mistake isn’t new to him — and the entire room lets out a sigh of relief when the seat is given up without needing to come to blows.

Valdas gives him a chiding look as they settle in, but the Golden Son refuses to feel shame for it. “If I changed too much you wouldn’t recognize me.”

“Well your head makes it a challenge.”

Cynbel finds himself running his fingers through his close-cropped hair; grown out from the time gone but nothing like his lovers used to prefer.

By the time they get their drinks the pair have yet again found their own secret methods of intimacy. Lucky that the chairs are small but the tables are smaller. It makes the press of their legs from hip to toe reasonable — if excessive.

But they would risk everything for this.

Cynbel takes a long drink of the swill and watches carefully as Valdas does the same without hesitation. Only… he’s gotten used to the piss-water taste of the stuff. Forced his memories of finer liquors down in order to get through the ordeal of stomaching it. Valdas hasn’t.

He watches with no small amount of amusement; takes in the disgust as readily as he does the affection. And has the decency to wait until his Maker is finished choking on air he doesn’t need to ask the inevitable question.

“So… how is she?”

The Made-God is slow to answer and isn’t that enough to jump-start Cynbel’s long-stilled heart.

“She misses you.”

“As I miss her — as I’ve missed you both.” He does it without looking, without drawing attention. The creep of his hand over the sticky wooden surface to rest their littlest fingers together. Their smiles both wistful, wanting. “How have things been? I mean — the others get scarce letters from home and with such varied accounts of what the world is thinking, doing. Some are bleak, others hopeful.”

Valdas nods. “Sounds about right. The world is split down the middle. The more politicians and commanders-at-arms tout their new strategies and plans for a _final confrontation_ the more foolhardy they sound.”

“You’ve both kept safe, though.”

“Safety is relative. Perhaps it has escaped your notice, darling, but the world is at war with itself.” With a scoff Cynbel shoves him by the shoulder; reaches out just as quickly to make sure the man doesn’t fall. This filthy floor could never be worthy of Him.

“We moved on about a month into your tour,” he continues, “to Zürich. The plan was to find a change of scenery in the Americas — somewhere near the equator, somewhere the nights were warm and calm. But we could not stomach the thought of such distance from you.”

Of course he feels as they do. Even the shadow of the thought—of a sea between them—ignites a jealous spark; selfishness. But it’s just that; selfish. And they didn’t. Valdas is right here. Isseya is closer now than she was in Tuscany.

“Cynbel,” Valdas risks more than he knows when he coaxes Cynbel’s chin up with a two-fingered touch; but he could care less, “You were right. The country becomes her.”

“And is she practicing?”

“She tries where she can. But most doctors still see only a woman—a nurse.”

“Isseya is to a nurse as a nurse is to a butcher!” exclaims Cynbel, bewildered. Valdas finally dares to gamble with his life and a second sip of his drink. It goes down about just as easy as the first.

They trade stories well through the night. Cynbel can’t help but wonder if Valdas, too, finds it incredible and strange just how much there is for them to share. What are mere months compared to the rest of their lives? What makes these _more_ or _less_ than any other?

He’s had ample opportunity in the trenches to think about this very thing, and has come to the conclusion that it must be how fast the world is turning now. _Well, not literally, though there were now words, definitions, numbers for that sort of thing._ But his eyes—their eyes—have seen much of human history and to deny it would be foolish.

Industry, innovation; mankind is using a new kind of imagination the likes of which their old blood has never seen.

The palm that cups his cheek is warm. The waning candlestick that once was on the other end of the bar now rests dangerously close to Valdas’ sleeve. He pushes it away with an absent finger but soaks in the unfamiliar feeling graciously.

“I travel all this way and you are still so far from me.” The longing drags out in his voice like a single note from a violin. Cynbel dares to hold that hand exactly where it is. He catches himself in a smile as the tips of Valdas’ nails tickle at what they can reach of his earring.

“I think I owe the two of you an apology.”

“Likely,” two fingers tug at Cynbel’s earlobe now and such a simple intimate touch thrills him utterly, “but what for this time?”

“It’s different this time —” _—how can he put the feelings into words, he would have more luck composing them of raindrops or the miasma of death that lingers at every soldier’s back—_ “— or perhaps _I’m_ the one who’s different.”

“How do you mean?”

“I’m still determined to see this through.”

“I should hope so.”

“But I think… had Iss’ come with you — had the pair of you arrived together… I may very well have thrown it all aside and deserted with your hands in mine.”

 _Running is such a cowardly thing. And the Golden Son is no coward._ So it’s completely understandable that he leaves the Made-God speechless at his confession. There’s a fragment of Cynbel that can’t quite believe it himself.

“Those are strong words from you, Cynbel,” Valdas admits, and at least one of them is steady enough to speak, “and I won’t say I’m not glad to hear them. She would be too. We’ve both long believed your eyes were bigger than your stomach when you set all this into motion.”

They share a laugh between them; not enough for two but they make do. They always have. Having something wholly to himself feels too gluttonous now.

“How many years do you think she’ll hold that over my head?”

Lips so very familiar curl into a smirk. “What, that we were right? Oh — the full century at least.” _Anything less would be an insult._ “But you deserve it.”

“Yeah, I do.”

They pull away slow at first; the magnetism of their hearts resisting the sanity of their heads. But the separation ends all at once to the grinding chair legs and rising steps uneven with drink and the headiest of drugs called _respite._

Cynbel catches one by the arm before he can stumble out of reach. “So eager to return to the trenches?”

The soldier shakes his head. _“Non, Claude._ Patrick says he was solicited not five days ago. We’re gonna go see if we can find them.” The Frenchman drags his eyes to Valdas with great effort; focuses on him through the drink and it is suspicion, yes, but not the kind that worries him. _He’s grown too used to humans and their funny notions._

“You two want to join us?”

“I don’t think my friend’s fiancée would like that very much.” Though she would _wholeheartedly_ approve of the sharp kick Valdas gives to his shin.

But this is just another part of the ruse and Cynbel’s had months to build it well. Soldiers would always be soldiers would always find themselves wary of brothers-in-arms who don’t join them.

“Mother of Christ,” comes the hiccoughed reply, “another pious one?”

But Valdas takes his answer for his own; though his usual French eloquence is beset with a strange accent — makes it difficult for drunken ears to hear him proper. “Not at all. Unless you count my devotion to her inheritance as religion.”

The vampires watch the tiny wheels turn with shared amusement. Cynbel’s not altogether sure the slurred laughter and “Atta man!” of praise isn’t just to fill the space and carry on.

And there it is; that expectant look and single dark brow raised with it. Cynbel’s sigh is weary on the subject but, of course, his Maker can never be denied.

“I had to tell them _something,”_ he fishes a handful of coins from the breast pocket of his coat and leaves them as payment, “since soldiers are as they’ve always been. They treat fidelity like social treason and only scrape together respect for those they’ve deemed surrogates for their own lack of faith.”

The Made-God and his firstborn walk out of the dingy building with arms linked. Most of the others are either gone or distracted with one another now and the lovers are more than happy for the chance. Even a second is better than not at all.

Though apparently Valdas doesn’t have an opinion on his unorthodox means of staying faithful to them — _which, no, that’s utter bollocks; when has he never_ not _had an opinion on anything_ — “Don’t give me that face. Technically I didn’t _lie_ when I said I was given to my God. They just assumed their God and mine were one in the same; their fault, not mine.”

“I said nothing against it, beloved.”

“Your silence speaks volumes.”

“Good to know you can still listen.”

 _Listen,_ indeed. He can listen quite well as his Maker — his lover well knows. And though the warmth of the candle’s flame has left Valdas’ hand Cynbel still takes it in his own because he’s never needed warmth.

All he’s ever needed is the weight of them. Heat can linger but weight is proof something is present; that it exists.

“And it makes me feel like I exist for the first time in months.”

The dark-haired man realizes quickly that Cynbel hadn’t meant to speak his thoughts. Still he takes them just as hungry, just as craven, and refuses even a letter of them back.

That same weight tightens and they’ve moved; beheld to his Holy One’s will. Out of the open and near-abandoned cobbled streets and away from the gas-lit lamps and into a place darker than the night itself.

The brick catches, clings to his uniform. He couldn’t give less of a damn. Valdas could rip the fabric to shreds (and that’s quite the idea and visual that comes with it but practicality wins out) because he’s _there. In person._

The weight of him is a sermon and prayer.

“Our darling girl sends her love.” Valdas’ breath croons wet against his ear — with the close-cut of his hair he feels it _more._ “She sends me.”

That weight shifts to a firmly pressed thumb on his hip. “What a perfect gift, belated from the Dark Solstice maybe?”

“There was a delay with the post —” he falls to his knees (and in that action all other gods, faiths, prophets are banished by the radiance of His humility) as he speaks; the mere sight leaves Cynbel breathless, “— It may have escaped your notice but there’s a war on.”

He throws his head back hard enough for the brick behind to crack. Stifling their laughter is a near-impossible task but somehow they manage. “I… I…”

It seems Valdas has had his fill of Cynbel’s words, though, and his appetite is left wanting. 

But only for about as long as it takes for him to undo his progeny’s belt.

* * *

The rest of the world may weep for the events of the twentieth century but Cynbel simply cannot remember the last time he felt so much zest for life.

“And she really agreed to it? Surely she’ll miss you.”

Valdas huffs, certainly unamused. “You make me sound like an object to which you’ve shared custody.”

“You know what I mean.” Cynbel knocks their boots together against the aisle. Unlike the rest of the men they don’t need to shout to one another as the truck takes its sweet time trekking them out of town. “Just as you know I would rather you be with her safe and out of harms way.”

“She would rather I here in it — holding tight to that leash of yours.”

“You brought the leash?” Cynbel’s eyes immediately alight almost boyish and giddy. A sight that gladdens his Maker but definitely earns him a long-suffering sigh.

“The leash of your recklessness. Of course I’ll be staying by your side until this War is seen done. All the more swiftly we can get back to her. Oh, and Cynbel, watch your tongue, I won’t say it twice.”

But to say it is unlikely that any of the (very drunk, very boisterous) soldiers riding with them might recognize their tongue last put to print in Alexandria and last spoken on stranger’s tongues a century before that — well that’s giving the French far too much credit and that Cynbel will simply not abide.

He casts a look out into the darkness of the trees and sparse land. Can’t help himself in either his smirk or his wicked thoughts. “Glad I did not ask the same of _you,_ my deliciously talented Divinity.” He braces himself for a blow that never comes — but if Valdas wishes to pretend he’s hiding his smile slowly growing, then pretend they both shall.

It’s such a rare and beautiful moment. Fleeting like youth and innocence but there’s always the potential of it. And Cynbel has missed that smile _so much more_ than he ever thought he would, has taken the distance between them _so much harder._

So he dares to allow himself a dangerous thought. Dangerous because the size of it eclipses everything else; the soldiers, the engine, the entire war around them.

 _I deserve this,_ Cynbel thinks.

And the war takes up the mantle and reminds him otherwise.

The first shell lands just shy of them; the _boom_ so loud that Cynbel’s ears are ringing far too much for him to hear the cries of enemy soldiers, the firing of enemy guns. And now that they have gotten a decent measure of the distance the second shell doesn’t dare miss.

The first sends dirt and rocks raining down on them with the shots. Cynbel watches with a growing concern as suddenly Valdas is… lower than him? Then his side of the truck falls back to the earth and everything evens out. Until the metal stands on and looses its last legs in the same breath and sends the tire rolling into the dark oblivion of the night.

On the second Cynbel can’t tell if the blood that tacks up dirt on his face is a Frenchman’s or his own and he frankly doesn’t care. All he cares about is Valdas. _Reaching for Valdas clawing for him sinking his grasp deep into bone if he must to keep him close and keep him safe._

To his horror there’s nothing on the other end of his hand. Just flesh packed tight under his nails and a blood-smeared palm.

_“VALDAS!”_

A blinding light suddenly pierces the darkness. A third shell lands lucky on the truck now tipped over. Sends shrapnel and shells and bone and dirt and blood flying out into the smoke-choked air.

Then the engine catches fire.

_“VALDAS!”_

There are no trenches here. They aren’t safe. And fuck if he will allow cowardly mortals who wait for the cover of midnight to attack.

One brave idiot fires at his back; drives the bullet through his body and makes the honorable sacrifice of being the sustenance he needs to close the hole it leaves. Cynbel isn’t so gracious in the holes _he_ leaves. Another kicks one of the Frenchmen from the end of his bayonet and swings it so wild and unpracticed— _amateur_ —that he feels a little bit like a bully when he shatters the metal in a single fist and shows him how to _properly_ stab a man.

The next one has a brass pair; well he must — grabbing the Golden Son’s shoulder hard and desperate. Cynbel turns with fangs bared, the rest of the jagged bayonet in hand, and _thank the fucking Made-God_ he stops himself before dragging it across Valdas’ throat.

Frozen they stand, each man holding a lover at arms’ length with the same frenzy and fear in his eyes. He feels the tentative touch of Valdas’ fingertips at his brow and sees them come back sticky with blood. Not his own. Cynbel brushes his thumb over a cut in his Maker’s lip and watches it heal before his eyes.

_They are fed. They are alive. They are together._

And how many times has one or more or _all_ of those things not been true? What the fuck were the doing out here exposed and in the line of fire — it didn’t matter what they wanted to do. Not when the reality was going to leave Isseya widowed and with no fucking word.

Cynbel grabs his lover and kisses him hard. Feels resistance only for a moment and only because they leave themselves vulnerable like this but the very thought of a quick peck of lips in a dirty Belgian alley being their last settles inside him about as well as acid.

Are Valdas’ ears still ringing? Cynbel’s are. His eardrums not yet healed and giving him cause to shout. Though perhaps he would have shouted it anyway. Perhaps it was just as much a proclamation to the world that would never stop trying to tear them apart as much as it is for his Lord and Light, his Divinity; his _Valdas._

“I want to go home.”

He already had the face the idea of an existence without the man and for the sake of what little sanity he clings to Cynbel will never do so again. _End this here and now. Before there is nothing left of us to love._

Valdas grips his hair until it hurts and further still. “As if I could ever deny you. My Golden Son.”

* * *

On a midnight much like this so very very far away — though not such in distance but in time — where locusts gave their choir to the air and to see the universe one need only look up to the heavens… Cynbel had found himself accosted by a peddler urchin boy.

 _“Domine so powerful and strong, but does he know his future?”_ And Cynbel had only humored him because his mind was not with his body or the starving hand that urged him along but in that very future he spoke of. His world ripped out from under him because his Made-God had not made himself at all, but had one he called Maker too. _“My sister will know his future. Three sestertius, three sestertius Domine.”_

If he’d known then what would come of it he might have commissioned the boy’s likeness in golden effigy.

He could smell death clinging to Nona from the moment they exchanged hellos. He did not feel pity or sympathy or affection at her. She was only as valuable to him as she was useful.

From her sickly bed Nona peddled her seer’s tricks. Things Cynbel had seen long ago in the shamans and envoys of the old tribes. Nothing so concrete as meeting true divinity and knowing it with intimacy.

 _“Enough of your sleights and suggestions,”_ he had snapped; because if he had been dragged all this way off the beaten path he would have expected something interesting from it at the least, _“you cannot even fathom how little of my time you waste here yet still I am left feeling robbed from it!”_

They needed his coin for bread. He didn’t care. Yet still she tried to grab him — one last chance to beg, perhaps — and that’s all it took.

_“You slept under an apple tree. You did not know he watched you; the sunlight of you. You only knew the life you had carved into your bones. Some part of you knew he admired you from afar… it woke you — it destined you and he to meet. You asked for him. And like a long-time lover he came to you. Beheld you with his eyes and body even as they blistered for you._

_“You blinded the Made-God and it made you weep. You offered yourself to him, pure hands that had spilled blood. And you have been his ever since. From that moment on — to now — to farther than I will ever see.”_

At first he kept her company for the feeling of memories hazy with the passage of time. Of his death-into-rebirth; of Isseya’s too when the time came. He did not understand the like of her but there would always be things new and unknown to him. That was what made life worth living eternally.

Then long-ago memories became that which had passed a day before, or that very evening. Surely that, too, would progress. And it did.

And at first the idea of the future thrilled him. No one—not even the mighty Godmaker—could have imagined what civilization, culture, _humanity_ would eventually become but he was so young and wide-eyed and had already seen so much that the Cynbel of that idyllic time was certain there could not have been anything greater than that moment.

And maybe there wasn’t.

 _“He Made you, named you, claimed you. And you gave—give—everything. But it isn’t enough. It won’t be enough.”_ She was frail, feeble; _human._ And he was terrified of her.

_“It’ll be the death of you.”_

Night after night he drilled her, dug into her, begged with tears in his eyes for the answer. _“Why would my love kill me? When? How? Please, Nona, please. I beg of you. You promised. You promised.”_ But he never _did_ get his answer. Not when Augustine happened, when Sayeed happened, when he had to sacrifice his only chance at knowing why his Beloved God was going to kill him to a bunch of fae folk masquerading as priestesses. Time kept urging them forward, backward; he hoped that if he loved them enough he could prove her wrong.

 _“Just once,”_ she said, _“I hope I’m wrong just once. All it will take is once.”_

So Cynbel finds it pretty fucking hilarious that only now — _two thousand years, countless empires and nations, corpses they made high enough to drown in later_ — does it occur to him that Nona had never said Valdas would kill him. Not word for word. He just wouldn’t be enough.

It’s him. It’s Cynbel… Cynbel wouldn’t be enough.

Based on the uniforms that decorate the body count it’s unlikely that any of his regiment will survive the night. Cynbel intends to make himself among the dead — but that takes a little more these days than leaving a faceless body in his own bed.

_“You said you would take me home.”_

_“Trust me, Cynbel my love. Trust me now more than you have ever trusted me in all our lives and all our years. Please… do that and I vow I will see us both home and whole with her again.”_

That’s what had done it — sent him spiraling into all sorts of thoughts on old seers long dead and visions to which he was never given full understanding.

_“Do you trust me?”_

When a God is made vulnerable the very foundations of their faith are shaken. It shows in his hands and the glassy fear in his eyes and every muscle tense uncertain; unsure. _Why does the Golden Son hesitate,_ asked in every tremor, _what has changed?_

He needed only see the question to know the answer.

_“I’ve always trusted you. Now, and all our years remaining.”_

Such silly creatures they were kissing in the middle of a massacre. Not the first time for the likes of them… and though normally Cynbel might find his thoughts wandering automatically to the next time it would be such he can’t say he would mind if it were not for a lifetime or more.

He trusts the Made-God. He trusts his Maker. He trusts Valdas. He trusts one of the pieces of his own soul that just happened to live in a different body.

They flee the ambush in opposite directions. _I trust him._ Valdas towards the town and supplies and Cynbel back to his station. Not for sentiments or material things but for stripes and colors; what little recognition he’s put effort for in seven months hiding in holes. _I trust him._

But it was not that their enemy was lurking on the roads waiting for a truck of soldiers made complacent and easily picked-off.

Their station is burning. Alight with flames that seek to meet one another around corners and bends. Scattered remnants of shells, shots, bodies both together and pulled apart by the explosions and when he slows down in the spaces between leaping fires he can hear the wails of the ones unfortunate not to have died on impact.

He pities them only in that torture is only made enjoyable when there is someone there to enjoy it. But the enemy has moved on by now. This is their warning.

_One fallen innocent is a message._

_A slaughtered horde—that’s a warning._

Where has he heard that before? Those words sound uncannily familiar.

_“They are familiar because you spoke them. Or wrote them, rather, in a letter of intent that should be known better as a declaration of war.”_

_Ah, yes._ Now _that_ strikes up his memory like the tolling bells of Notre Dame. Cynbel forces the recollection upon himself because that voice—too familiar—could not _possibly_ be there with him now. In the middle of a trench station in Belgium where the only living are the souls not yet dead.

“I think I wrote it drunk,” yes, yes he’d definitely been hammered — it was the only way he’d humor the idea, “since we’d always preferred our fists to our words, mine enemy and me. The Order of the Dawn, the Holy Sacred Knights of the Rising Dawn, the _Mars Tributa,_ and whatever other nonsense they called themselves… something-Ares. Funny to find something from before even _my_ time.

“But it was the age of chivalry re-imagined wasn’t it? Frock coats and bogged-down brocades and fucking dainty little gloves and duels of honor. I wrote my letter and when I did not receive a swift and _gentlemanly_ reply… I took matters into my own hands.”

Tumultuous; a good word to describe the evening. Isseya would be proud to hear him use it. She’s been nagging him since the turn of the century to try and be a little less… crass.

But the figure across the smoke, that takes up arms against him? Even in a tumultuous night Cynbel can’t say he expected this.

“I led them to the catacombs,” he continues; bats carelessly to smother any spark the embers hovering around the air might think to start, “I made sure they would feel their deluded righteousness and bring the best fight they could because I was bored of waiting around for their next big front. That night was _my_ version of a gentlemen’s glove thrown down. 

“And as I seem to recall, _Mademoiselle Dupont,_ I saved your life. You’re welcome, by the way.”

In the middle of a trench station in Belgium, Cynbel wants so badly to be anywhere else. In front of a hearth in Zürich with his fingers tangled in Isseya’s hair. Hidden away in a dirty Belgian alley clinging desperately to Valdas’ coat. Because _that_ Cynbel; he’s enough. But the one here, now?

He isn’t. 

And it will be the death of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An event a year in the making... here we go. Fun fact: the titles of each of Part V’s chapters are poems written during/about WWI. Check out _Men Who March Away_ by Thomas Hardy. Comments and critique would be fabulous as always. Thank you for reading, and for staying with the Trinity and I until the very end!


	14. V.ii. I Have a Rendezvous With Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Trust me now more than you have ever trusted me in all our lives and all our years." But... he vowed. He vowed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **chapter content warnings:** language, violence, blood, dissociation, hallucination, war (historical)

“Which one of them gave me up?” _I knew I shouldn’t have used that ugly name again._  


His eyes sweep through the wreckage of the trench. The wall supports are starting to cave in. Another shell might just bury them both.

Serafine doesn’t answer.

 _Fine._ “I’d be happy to continue this on higher ground.”

 _“Non,_ here will do.”

“What is it with you and tunnels beneath the earth?”

Even through the smoke he can see the way she curls her upper lip in disgust. He swears that even as the dark plumes grow darker still he can see her spit at him from afar.

Not much has changed about Serafine Dupont in the centuries since he saw her last. Her hair woven tight back then crowns her soot-stained forehead now; stray curls peek their way around her temples, her cheeks. Admittedly Cynbel prefers her in this close-cut uniform, even more in that it doesn’t bear enemy colors.

Her admirers might choose to keep _la belle de Paris_ pristine in their memories; donned _masque_ with laughter and seduction on her tongue. But he is no admirer and sees her now as he did then; wreathed in flame and staged upon a scene of needless death.

 _Needless…_ The thought burrows and takes root as a pounding in his temples. New to him but that made it no less true. Even as he catches the distant final beats of a heart losing too much blood he thinks it… _needless._

They had died, fine. But had they _needed to?_ To suit his amusement, perhaps. As the war had suited his amusement up until tonight.

Behind Cynbel the sandbags yield. Earth and debris sliding full to brimming and he has to step closer to her, to the relative safety of a load-bearing door frame.

“You are an arrogant fool to take your eyes off of me.”

It brings him back to her with a humorless laugh. “I’ve been called a fool for many reasons. Better reasons that that one, anyway.”

“It is the kindest of words I can think for you,” he definitely doesn’t imagine how she spits this time, _“le tueur.”_

At least accuse him for a murder he’s responsible for. It’s bloody London all over again, isn’t it. Cynbel claws at the patch on his uniform sleeve, colors just barely recognizable through the dirt.

“Bear the colors, Dupont. Why would I kill my own soldiers?”

“Ha! That is rich coming from you.”

It’s out of pride that he keeps his hands firmly at his sides; endures the ringing in his ears agitated by her shrill remarks. His head is healed, the two lower ribs snapped back into place by now. But his eardrums take their sweet fucking time don’t they?

Cynbel blinks through colorless sparks behind his eyes and names them embers. Across the aisle Serafine raises her chin defiant. Not spit this time — it’s pure venom that flies from her tongue in words.

_“Or were their lives not a sacrifice you deemed worth making?”_

Then Serafine twitches her hand and pulls his world out from under his feet. The silence of a land cleared for war replaced by the hollow barely-there echoes of the city. The smell of burning no longer all around but faint and hidden below. The moon is the same one that hung in both skies but there are no shells here, these cobbled streets have seen no falling angels of war, so she bathes them full and bright in her light.

Serafine still looks like Serafine. A quick glance, the drag of his nails over military-issued cloth; Cynbel still looks like Cynbel too.

But Belgium is three hundred years away and all the slumbering souls in Paris know not of the war that rages beneath their feet. It’s the opposite of a miracle; beautiful but aberrant. And in all his years the Golden Son has never seen or experienced the like.

“What — how did we…?”

“Over the years I thought of many ways to play this out,” the vampiress says instead, “whether here or in the burning husk of the former grand hall. Then I wondered if somewhere else would be more fitting. You certainly gave me a variety of choices over the decades; _les Trois Amants_ gouging the world wherever they went, all the catastrophe you left in your wake. I wanted this to serve as a reflection for you. The theatre had to be carefully chosen. It had to _mean something._

“But I do not care about that any longer. I do not care if your brazen act of massacre on this night meant nothing to you when it was finished. _It matters to me_ and that, Cynbel, is more than enough.”

Slow and sure he begins to understand.

“This is a memory of that night. Yours or mine?”

“Neither. It is the memory of Paris herself.”

The years haven’t been kind to Serafine’s sanity; that much is clear. But the risk is worth it when Cynbel looks at his back with the fleeting hope that Valdas and Isseya would be standing there now as they had been that night. He remembered them, she did too.

Paris, however, did not.

“It’s a feat of remarkable power and psychic skill.” He’ll give her that because to say otherwise simply isn’t correct. “Are we still in the trenches — physically, I mean. Ah well, burning flesh has never been my favorite part of war so I should thank you for making _that_ go away at the least.

“I’d be obliged if you showed me the trick of it. There are quite a number of memories I wouldn’t mind bringing back for a little while…” Cynbel’s voice trails off with his thoughts but the damage is done. Bewilderment, outrage, vengeance twist through Serafine inside and out. And all in concert with the ringing in his ears as it grows, and grows, and grows.

“I know it was you who fired the gun.”

It grabs his attention and that’s all she wants. Because she waits until she has it to show him a second of her (apparently many) skills. Another twitch; not even. A shadow of a gesture.

_BANG._

So loud and hollow and real that Cynbel feels muscle memory recoil from the pistol weight. It sends him staggering off balance, leaves him struggling to find himself firmly planted again but still in this psychic Paris.

 _That_ memory could be no one else’s; of that Cynbel’s certain. He laughs and laughs at it but with the pain growing in his temples he can’t quite tell if it’s from amusement or growing uncertainty.

The elder vampire shakes it off and steels himself with clenched teeth. His fangs ache sheathed in his gums. “Not like I covered my tracks that deeply — not to the right eye.”

“The supernatural eye.”

“The humans were content,” he flashes her a cheeky wink, “and I was in for a good spanking.”

“Are you really so blind to the enormity of your actions?!”

“Are you really here to _scold me?”_

What was hiding behind shadows of movements comes into the light with a war cry. Her voice shatters in her throat and with a wide gesture she throws Cynbel through the air. Pushes him prone with unseen forces against the nearest building wall. The stone _should_ yield under the weight of him but Paris does not remember a crumbling wall, so there isn’t one.

He collides with a sharp jerk of his neck. Feels pain lance through him white-hot and growing hotter even when the force vanishes as quickly as it came and sends him crumpling to the alley flagstones.

 _Fucking psychics._ It feels like their travels through China all over again.

And that answers a great number of questions. Many on the topic of pain.

Cynbel struggles—actually struggles, first time in… in he doesn’t know how long—he pull himself up and put his spine back in the position it’s meant to be in. Serafine watches with seething satisfaction and her laugh drips mockery thick as blood.

She approaches him slowly. Each step purposeful; an announcement. And with her advance every. single. time he feels it — hears that ringing like a hammer forging with his skull at the anvil.

“You, like the rabid hound of hell that you are, plunged the world into this war. This isn’t a religious campaign or a mere battle of territories, Cynbel. This is _nations, continents!_ There are millions dead and more yet to come before it ends and you dare to ask me if I am here to—to _scold you?!_ As if you are some child incapable of grasping consequences?!”

When she’s close enough Cynbel takes his turn and spits on her muddy boots.

“Well _pardon me,_ since that’s what it looks like.”

_“You are a monster!”_

Serafine psychic grip is far less dainty then she; he learns this the hard way. Can feel something pop out of place as her invisible power wrenches him from his knees and a head above her. The spread of her fingers shaking in wrath, in righteous justice spreading his limbs very near free of the rest of him.

Whatever she’s doing — some part of the memory, her psychic fury made physical, everything is too needled at the edges for Cynbel to know — it _hurts._ Pain like he hasn’t felt in millennia. The boar that gouged his side when he was a child. The first of his Made-God’s kisses that devoured his throat.

 _He isn’t healing._ Or not like he should. And he will continue to suffer so long as Serafine wishes it.

No, not _wishes._ She _demands it._ And here on the battlefield of her own choosing his body can do nothing but yield.

Through her power she binds him at the throat; head held high and unable to look away from her bared fangs, her hellish eyes. “You are a _monster,”_ she repeats, “and worse — you know it. You have always known it. Haven’t you?”

He doesn’t even try to answer; doesn’t think he could if he wanted to and his defiance tightens her hold. “I said _haven’t you!”_

 _“Yes —”_ Cynbel’s blood tastes burned at the back of his throat and leaves him choking on it, “— I am a monster. _Yes_ — I know it. I know the war was my doing. I know there are millions dead for it. The millions before them, too, were my doing.”

But Serafine doesn’t care about them. He’s near certain she doesn’t even care about any of the bodies piled higher than mountains behind Cynbel, behind his beloveds. She only cares about _them._

His lips peel back to fangs red with his own blood. “Just like I know every dead vampire under your feet was my doing too. I always have. But you seem to be laboring under a delusion that says otherwise.”

“I assure you I see _everything_ very clearly.”

“Do you now…? Because what I see is the scared young hostess; the pathetic waif that would rather flee in cowardice than take up arms. How many of _my dead_ could have been saved had you stayed to fight?”

Serafine backhands him. A physical touch. One that stings physically and fades like all wounds should. And he prefers it that way — all psychic blows lack the passion and heat of the fight. Of the kill.

And no one has ever claimed him _lacking_ in passion.

“I thought as much.”

“You cannot twist blame onto me. I _mourn_ your dead; even the ones I do not know. I must.”

“And why the _fuck_ is that?”

“I see the threat you pose!”

“Let me free and I’ll show you how much of a _threat_ I can be.”

“Not _you_ — not you alone. But you — your blasphemous _Trinity.”_

The surprise of it stuns him. It lasts just long enough for the vampiress’ own passion to make her falter. Just a little — a little is more than enough.

He finds the place where her psychic bonds are weakest. Cynbel wrenches his leg free of them with a primal growl and finds the _crunch_ when his boot collides with her face undeniably satisfying. Serafine staggers back, howls at the pain and all of those little psychic bonds quickly unravel at the seams without her to keep them woven.

Paris melts around them. Buildings, the cathedral in the distance, even the moon melting like candles until they are left back in what remains of the trenches — smells, sounds and all.

In the distance thunder — not thunder, thunder holds strength but he can hear only power — more shells, then. The enemy are determined to claim the land in victory and they spread their fingers out wide to do it. Like Serafine had.

Serafine who groans on her knees and rushes to stand. Blood and dirt caked to her chin and neck while her hair comes down in curls around her face. It brings a wildness to the sight of her.

It brings him to finally see the murderous intent in her eyes. It’s been there the whole time. But Cynbel let himself ignore it; he had to. The war has made him weary but he’s still _him._ Still Cynbel, the Golden Son, firstborn of Valdemaras — he _is_ the wars raged across the world throughout time. 

He is weary but not enough to die. And Valdas promised to take him home.

Serafine was as little of a threat then as she is now. Or that’s what he’s allowed himself to believe.

“You three will be the death of us all.”

 _Pop_ — he rolls his shoulder bone back in place. “Cut the dramatics.”

“I see it. Kamilah sees it too. And Gaius would — if the destruction in your wake interfered with his plans again.”

 _Again,_ she says it like she was there, the arrogance… “You’re trying my patience.”

“Be it human or vampire you three have proven endlessly the havoc you will wreak in one another’s name.”

“What the fuck else do you expect?!” It was a lie — he has no patience for her to try. Cynbel pins her to the door frame holding on for dear life and they aren’t in a _memory,_ not anymore. The wood creaks in warning.

“No one understands. No one can — no one has the capacity not even fucking _Kamilah Sayeed.”_ He laughs; weak, lamenting. “I gave up trying long ago because of _this — you._ Those like you.”

Her sneer is pitiless. “We are the ones who have suffered; the ones who have _lost_ and _grieved_ because of your obsessive, destructive love!”

He’s cut out tongues and torn hearts in two for lesser insults. Which he’ll choose for her will be entirely dependent on time.

“Wrong! You are the ones who see us in pieces, fragments. You come into our lives and judge us in your entirety but you—you and all others like you are _so. very. temporary._ You don’t deserve the right to judge us but you take it anyway. Where you see your beloved _Paris_ we see the land that was crushed to build it. Where you see what you call _obsession_ we… we…”

If Cynbel had continued the shell that makes impact a hundred paces ahead would have drowned him out. But he’s trying at a fruitless pursuit the Trinity has been struggling against for two thousand years. Trying to put words where they are none that tell the story fully, none that can fill the vastness of their hearts and instead leave them with scraps.

“We have seen—done— _lost_ so much. _We are our constant._ And nothing I could say could ever give you enough to feel it for yourself. Not if we had hours. Not if we had days, years. And I’m… I’m sorry for that. I could never live without it.”

 _Let her judge us,_ he thinks. _She already has and she will continue to for as long as I keep her alive. And she is not the first nor will she be the last._

He wants to let it go. For Valdas waiting for him in whatever remains of the nearby town. For Isseya waiting for them both to return to her. _He wants to let it go._

But that won’t save them. Serafine Dupont is unique — she’s gotten closer than anyone ever has before. But what of the _Serafine_ that follows her; the faceless figure who follows in her footsteps? Or the one after that? Maybe not now, maybe not in a hundred years… maybe not even for another two thousand. But one day… that’s all it will take.

_He won’t be enough to save them._

The next shell lands close enough they both flinch. Misses the vampires and the crumbling trenches only enough for chunks of Belgian soil to rain down overhead. Serafine tries to fight him off to no avail. He will always be older — he will always be stronger.

Cynbel blinks back tears from stinging eyes. Dirt and ash and smoke and the dead all around them.

He isn’t quite sure her tears are quite the same.

“You would let the rest of the world grieve…” he catches every vibration, every hesitation with his hand on her throat, “… so you never have to?”

“For them… _yes.”_

He knows from the moment the word leaves his lips that, to Serafine at least, he’s made the wrong choice. But he tried; he did. He tried to help her— _make her_ understand.

Because loving them was never a choice.

Her attack comes unexpected. Because he loves them, because he misses them, though more likely because not every psychic blow is dealt outside the mind.

She drills a hot poker through his popped eardrums and skewers his head upon it. She makes the ringing in his ears louder and louder and endlessly tolling with every church bell he’s ever heard. She transmutes every nerve and thought into brittle glass, shatters them, and puts them back together at jagged angles that bleed him dry.

Serafine is too focused to hear the high-pitched whistle; the song the last shell sings through the air.

It doesn’t miss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out [_I Have a Rendezvous with Death_ by Alan Seeger.](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45077/i-have-a-rendezvous-with-death)
> 
> Next week will follow in the same pattern as the previous book finales; V.iii. will be posted around normal time and about an hour later the epilogue will follow. I’m excited to say that _Destiny II_ is well underway by now so it will premiere the week following! Comments and critique would be fabulous. Thank you for reading!


	15. V.iii. And There Was a Great Calm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because loving him was never a choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **chapter content warnings:** language, violence, mild gore, grief

_Zürich, 1918_  


It doesn’t make any sense.

Valdas is there, darkening the doorway, and that she is more than happy to see. He knows it. But he’s too early by months, years if the world were so unlucky. And when she strains her ears there is no celebration carried in through the open windows.

If the War was over no one would dare sleep through the joy of it.

She rules out the (laughable, impossible) idea that Cynbel would have sent their God away and back to her. That Valdas would have _let him._ Equally unfathomable ideas include Cynbel transferring regiments before a letter could reach them, Valdas sleepwalking all the way to Switzerland, and the Godmaker lurking somewhere unseen ready to shout _“Boo!”_

Isseya lets her imagination run wild with a dozen ideas and more because there are too few explanations that really _could_ be the truth and all of them shatter her.

“He’s downstairs isn’t he,” only Isseya doesn’t recognize her own voice; knows nothing beyond the way she swallows around the pain, “he’s… he’s getting your things. Seven months of roughing it and you’re letting him do all the manual labor? Age has made you soft.”

Valdas doesn’t laugh. Isseya finds that she can’t.

“He’s downstairs,” she repeats — like saying it will make it true.

“Valdemaras — _tell me he’s downstairs.”_

Finally her God— _his God their God always their God always together always in unity the very thought of anything but them is simply unthinkable_ —looks her in the eyes.

She claws them from his skull. Forces him to endure the dishonor of it out in the open as penance for how he dares to make them look apologetic, look grieving. His blood runs down her arm and stains her satin negligee but he takes his punishment silent because he knows he deserves it for daring to return to her without all of their heart in tow.

The moment Isseya holds them so small and wet in her hands regret overwhelms her. They fall misshapen to the flat floor and he crushes one unknowingly when he trips over the door frame blind.

She takes a sick satisfaction in watching how slow he heals. He deserves it, she hopes he hasn’t fed since he left her, no no no she can’t lose him too _oh no no no not ‘too’ because if there’s a ‘too’ that means—_

When they finally grow back she gives Valdas a second chance. Demands of him a different answer it doesn’t matter _what_ it just can’t be the one from before. But it is. The look is the same and the answer is the same and the question she refuses to ask is the same and she doesn’t understand how hellfire and avenging angels aren’t soaring down from the sky to meet the opened pits of the underworld and the demons with open arms to embrace them because _surely this is the end of days._

And once she starts crying nothing can make her stop.

Not for lack of trying. She forces him to remove her eyes. At first he resists but she just doesn’t let him. He is no longer allowed to deny her anything, not even his own heart ripped from his chest, because _he owes her._

He _failed her._

He _failed Cynbel._

So every cut, mutilation, surgical removal Valdas agrees to as penance. Her eyes; but she still weeps tears of blood. Her tongue; but she still screams even if there aren’t words. _How could there ever be words._

Isseya pushes but she pushes too hard, too fast, _too much_ and he drops his dagger cool on her bare chest insufferable and weak.

“Do it.”

“No.”

She slaps him again. This time with claws. “How dare you deny me. I said do it!”

“I will not.”

“Do it Valdas! Do it! Take back _that which is yours housed in my flesh,_ oh great Made-God, and shove it up your fucking hole!”

Valdas watches as she takes the dagger’s hilt in a pale-knuckled grip and rushes to catch the blade before she fells it. Isseya watches as she pierces his hands laid together over her and doesn’t know whether to thank him or pull the tip out to try again.

_“Why aren’t you angry?!”_

He pulls her up sitting. Holds on even as she fights against his embrace— _it isn’t right it will never be right don’t touch me without him ever again_ —and he’s older and stronger and that wins out.

But he’s so benevolent, her Made-God. He holds her until their bones grind even against their flesh and then longer. He weathers every storm of her even without an end in sight.

She still hates him, though, because he _just won’t cry._

By the time dawn is near Isseya doesn’t remember how to move out of the path of sunlight. Valdas loves her and pulls her up and into his arms; shushes her near-incoherent mutterings begging to be left there to burn as he carries her to their bedroom.

“N-No, no no _nono_ please anywhere else. Anywhere. Please I’ll do anything just…” _Just not in a bed they never shared together._

Or maybe that’s the only place Valdas and Isseya have even a sliver of hope for restless sleep. For tonight — for all nights without him.

_There won’t be that many. There can’t be. Her broken heart won’t survive it._

Isseya watches with wide-eyed silence while Valdas goes about his morning motions. The curtains closed and fastened tight. Clothes shed like snakeskins — though this she resists at first, but “I will not survive the day if anything is between us, Isseya,” and he’s right… he’s right. But it’s all wrong. None of the pillows linger of him and now they never will. The bed is too big, there’s too much space; she feels adrift.

Valdas knows this and anchors her in his arms. He holds her tight enough for it to hurt; he knows her so well.

_He’s the only one who ever will, now._

Eventually, tentatively, she holds him back.

Valdas probably thinks she’s asleep — it’s just like him to wait until she finds some semblance of ease before he starts to unravel at the edges. Hands trembling, wet dots of tears at the crown of her head. It doesn’t please Isseya to feel these things, per se, but they make her feel a little less. _Because if she feels less she might make it to tomorrow._

“I can’t be angry, beloved,” his voice is the last thing she hears before the first time she sleeps not-quite-whole, “I can’t take _that_ from you, too.”

* * *

_New Orleans, 1921_

“Wait, Valdas —” She kisses him to bruising; no small feat for their kind, for _them._ Yearning, heated; a reminder to be grateful for what they have and a tribute to who they have lost. The same kind of kiss she’s given every day for two years.

_Two years._ It seems so fickle, so tedious. Something they would have laughed about two centuries ago. There are moments when Valdas longs for those times of ignorance. It was—as they say—blissful.

_The longest two years of their lives._

He only pulls away because he has to. Risks everything in one stolen moment to look at her, take in her beauty, and mourn.

And the same kiss pulls the same answer from him hoarse and desperate. “This is not goodbye, Isseya.”

“See that it isn’t.” They’ve said their farewells but she still won’t let him go. He understands the impulse. But this is an opportunity unlike the others — it could change everything.

“Isseya.”

She looks up with guarded eyes and a set jaw. “What did it cost?”

“I have to go.”

“Tell me.”

“I’ll miss the boat.”

_“Valdas.”_ Grief, her heart is in the right place. Always carried between his ribs.

“No… _specific_ price was named. He will call on me, that’s all he said. One day he will call on me and I won’t deny him — whatever he asks.”

He knew she’d react like this. That she would cling to him tighter, take skin under her nails and think of all the terrible things in this world and even a few in the next that Gaius would demand of him when the time came. Because with a man like him it’s never an _if_ — only a matter of _when._ “He has his kingdom, his throne,” she seethes, “his queen and subjects and everything— _everything_ —he has ever wanted. And still he would dangle our last hope over our heads?”

But he knows Isseya only speaks from a place of love and loss. His heart is breaking right alongside hers and she knows it.

That’s why she lets him go.

“Some things never change.”

Halfway up the plank Valdas turns back. Of course she’s still there.

Some things never change.

Valdas suspects the same thing applies in the realm of The Fate when he arrives. Sun that isn’t quite sun, that doesn’t set him ablaze but neither does it warm the ache in his bones. He looks at it out on The Charon’s deck because he can — because he might be one of the few vampires ever to get the chance. But this is a realm of eternal betweens and it has caught the most beautiful sunset in its sky; radiant and golden.

“I wish you could see this. It’s beautiful… but I suspect you might call it a little _too_ beautiful.” He’s… really doing this, isn’t he? “You’re arguing with me and you’re not even here — oh how I long for your petulance, Cynbel. Between you and I, our darling Isseya doesn’t argue with me nearly enough.”

And were his Golden Son here, he would take the silence to remind Valdas that it doesn’t matter how far he gets, whether he doesn’t step a foot off The Charon or ends up deep in the bowels of the _Château des Epoques,_ Gaius will call on his debt regardless.

The butler who invites him inside reminds Valdas a little of Tobias. Though like all fond thoughts it quickly sours in his throat and leaves him struggling to put one foot in front of the other.

The fae opens one of two mirrored doors. “Through here, please,” and for the first time he lets Valdas take the lead and does not follow. The _thud_ of the closing door echoes in ripples throughout a spacious ballroom. When faced with the decision to either sit on a lone chaise facing mocking golden-haloed windows or find solace at a piano secreted away in the shadows… there is no contest.

Impatience itches at him like pins and needles but Valdas remains calm because he must. Because even a Made-God knows there is a time and place to respect powers higher than his own and because he would wait here until the end of time thrice over for what The Fate can grant him.

Valdas takes a seat on the bench and makes himself comfortable. He brushes a finger over the keys and finds himself strangely entertained by the thick layer of dust that comes back with it.

“Will you play me something?” asks a young girl sweetly, and though her presence alone should startle him Valdas is too old now; has seen too much. She looks up at him with wide eyes the color of the sun on the far windows and does not blink, not even once.

“It would be my pleasure. Do you have a request?” While the child — _no, this is The Fate, Gaius warned him of their many faces, many voices, all with the same eyes_ — fills idle silence with humming thought Valdas goes about unbuttoning his cuffs to roll them up and out of the way. His movements are crisp and proper and it occurs to him (possibly just shy of too late) that he’s putting on his best behavior for a _babe._ Why, of all faces, is he met with one with an innocence he neither remembered nor missed?

Finally The Fate nods — and the smile they offer him crinkles deep at the corners on old skin like leather. The silver of their hair close-cropped and a tad more aesthetically fitting.

“Play me the melody only the beloved know.”

Though he may not show the years on his face Valdas has an inkling that he and the elder beside him carry the same wistful weight in their eyes. He doesn’t give it a great deal of thought — merely puts fingertips to keys and allows the broken remains of him to do the rest.

The sunset never wanes or moves in the sky. Hard to tell how much time passes like that; but they are both very old souls with nowhere else to be. His fingers never ache, the tune never fades from his head or his heart and it shows in impassioned movements, spontaneous changes of key; in the first unburdened smile to grace Valdas’ lips since that cold night in Belgium.

He is the Made-God Valdemaras. The fearful final thoughts of countless victims, worshiped in death and gifted sacrifices in tokens of blood. He has loved the wrath of war given eternal beauty in gold and he has loved the craven cries of justice with eyes dark and impossible to deny. He called upon the highest power he knew for some last hope — any fleeting possibility or long-lost myth that could bring back the missing pieces of them. And in doing so he may very well have bargained what is left of himself away, too.

Valdas came to this strange place on the shores of the rivers of time, away from all the horrible tragedies of the world… many of which he had a hand in in some form or another… because _there is nothing left but this._ No resurrection, no specter, no owed debt or Faustian deal left that they had not already tried.

He came here with every intention of demanding submission of fate itself to bring Cynbel back.

The piece ends. That’s it — just ends. Abruptly and suddenly and in a way that wrenches him and The Fate alongside out of the beauty of the music and back to the thinned reality of the _Château._

The Fate rests a hand calmly over his. He recognizes those fingers, knows the brambles that scarred those knuckles and could chart the heavens in each little freckle.

Valdas could look up and see Cynbel one last time, here. Perhaps not with his eyes or his hair but with his smile, his voice. He doesn’t because it isn’t fair that only he should have it. They have never been selfish except with each other. _There is no trinity without three._

The Fate realizes their mistake and silently pulls away. “I thought it would be a comfort to you.”

“Only one thing could be that.”

“I know your question, but do you know my answer?”

He does.

For the second time Valdas returns to Isseya with the same empty hands. He readies himself — even craves it a little — to go blind from her fury, to hold the pieces of her together until they start to heal. As their kind always do.

Instead she kisses him long, and bruising, and the same as every other kiss she has given for the last two years. 

And when it makes the Made-God fall to pieces she holds him until he starts to heal.

* * *

_New York, 1949_

Adrian is still frowning when he returns with their drinks. Even worse he’s present beside her but absent everywhere else — lost in his thoughts which no doubt an ocean away and scattered among the battlefields.

Kamilah takes her glass and nicks the flesh of his knuckle for good measure. It works; as though jostling him from a waking dream.

“Sorry, did you say something Kamilah?”

She frowns. “Not presently, but you’re lucky we’re alone.”

One eyebrow shoots upwards. “I wouldn’t exactly call us _alone.”_ And of course they aren’t, the Awakening Ball around them is waist-deep in its own bacchanalia. Frankly Kamilah doesn’t remember the last one being this crowded.

Crowded, and not. So many faces but so few she recognizes now… so many new vampires Celebrated this night. Another war come and gone and so many old companions with it.

Of course he’s smiling — he knows he’s right. _Semantics._ “You get cheekier with age.” But it leaves her sighing, as all affection does. “You don’t need to make it so obvious that you don’t want to be here. If not for the sake of the Council’s image then for Marcel’s. Your frown would break his little heart.”

He darts a quick glance, like the mention of their host will procure him from thin air, but Kamilah wouldn’t have said anything unless she was certain he was far off and kept amused.

“Can you blame me?”

“Easily.”

“Kamilah.”

“Adrian?” And for a moment she thinks he might challenge her on it further. That moment does not last long, though, and she is grateful for it — for _him._

With a silent nod to the ballroom doors — a silent question that gets a silent answer — they venture out from the main event to enjoy more singular company elsewhere in the castle. Despite the labyrinth that it is Adrian surprises her with a newfound confidence. She half considers teasing him about coming upstate in his off-time.

Adrian doesn’t _have_ off-time though, does he.

With the waves of new guests, Celebrated and new friendships formed alike, Marcel had decided to open up his famed home as a gesture. _Come friends,_ it says, _my home is your home. You are safe here._

_Gesture_ aside, though? Kamilah will always find crowds unsettling. Even among friends.

The pair turn to enter the library but stop, old souls as they are, and spare mere seconds in their eternal hours to take in the memorial plaque that guards the threshold.

There isn’t much about Westbrook that Kamilah remembers fondly. His skill in battle, perhaps, but even that was brutish to a point. And that was why their Maker had liked Adrian better — had favored his shiny new toy from the moment he was born and even more when the old one broke in hand.

She rests a steady hand on Adrian’s upper arm.

“Come. We cannot change the past, but we can ensure we don’t repeat it.”

Together Adrian and Kamilah wander the shelves and aisles, take a moment here and there to observe the contents of this display or the engraving on that tablet.

Artifacts surrounded by artifacts.

And they have been at _this_ for so long by now. Their friendship, working relationship, companionship. Adrian remains the only one capable of understanding the unprompted and self-loathsome grief that can come quickly and without warning. He _knows_ her; and she knows him in kind. Well enough to catch the moment the well of him overflows and send his thoughts tumbling from his lips.

“It just seems so… excessive,” Adrian explains, upper lip twitching in distaste, “I mean — glassware, all the costumes, and I can’t even begin to imagine how expensive keeping the castle in good form was during the thick of it.”

“Marcel’s wealth is as old as he is.”

“And I bet it’s a pretty vast fortune.” And though he speaks around the subject Kamilah comes to understand him shortly after.

“The war is done now, Adrian. It has been for four years.”

“Then not now — but what about the next one?”

He’s right to think as he does. The ignorant may call it pessimism but Kamilah has seen enough to know otherwise. There will _always_ be a next one.

“Let us both hope we don’t have to give that a real thought for some years still.” Kamilah stops them both amid a corridor of portraits but she only sees Adrian; only cares about the face that is flesh and alive and in front of her.

He wears the ghosts of the fallen like a funeral shroud.

When Adrian finally eases himself, he does so all at once. An exhale of everything that has kept him together since he returned to New York. Unfortunately there’s nothing with which she can replace the empty space. Certainly not any part of her — he has enough burdens on his back.

“Two in the same century, Kamilah…” her heart breaks for him, “I just don’t know if I’ll be able to handle another.”

He will, of course. She knows it, he knows it. He cares too much to do anything else. “Progress has always demanded sacrifice. And humanity progresses now faster than I have ever seen before.” But his choice of words leaves Kamilah glad for the chance to reassure him. However brief.

“I cannot promise peace no more than you can. But if you’re worried about catalysts of the past causing pain in our future, then I hope you believe me when I say they will not.”

Marcel will have to forgive them for taking their leave of the night’s festivities so soon. Or more likely he’ll demand recompense before the next Ball comes around. But Adrian has fought hard to give the attendees and Marcel alike a reason worth celebrating. He has earned his rest.

She puts a hand at his back and leads them back to the front of the library. “I think the Council’s reputation will survive one evening without us.”

_It probably won’t,_ especially when she thinks of the other members back in the ballroom. But Adrian comes first; she refuses to consider the damage they may have already done.

Adrian who resigns himself to silent contemplation all the way to his apartment for the week-end. Until he can no longer. 

“How can you know? _Really_ know?”

Kamilah busies herself with his door and key; a ruse to hide her face even if it’s in vain. He knows her, after all.

Far better than any other.

“Because he is dead.” _And they are all better for it._

* * *

_Rome, 2002_

“Come on, where’s your sense of adventure?”

Maricruz stops altogether, a suddenness that jerks Megan back by their clasped hands. Ever the opportunist she takes advantage — uses the momentum to pull her close and twist them both against the rusting tunnel wall.

She leers at the younger vampire, finds a silent delight at the wide pupils and flushed breathing that stares right back, and leans in to nip flat teeth her bottom lip. “I was dodging mobsters and bribing cops before you were _born, chica._ I protested at Berkeley and cheered on my girl Marsha for her aim. So… wanna try that again? And remember, _mi amor,_ you don’t need to breathe.”

Their lips seal together and for a moment all questions are forgotten. There is only the two of them in the entire world; hands roaming greedy, silly; joyful over one another with abandon.

And when she pulls back — her girlfriend is _still breathing._

“Old habits?” Megan tries; it doesn’t work. “Well you gotta admit the whole _heavy panting_ thing really adds to the snogging experience.”

“I don’t have to admit _a thing.”_

_“How about the both of you admit this has been a wild goose chase so we can go home?!”_

The older vampires rolls her eyes and earns a light smack to her arm for her troubles. But why would she lie and say she’s _happy_ they’re doing this as a fantastic foursome?

“Remind me again why you thought bringing your brother would be fun?”

“We do everything together. It’s a twin thing.” Megan admonishes — laces their fingers up together again just as the stragglers round the tunnel corner at last.

“You know these walls make everything echo like fuck, right?” Brandon fixes a _look_ on Maricruz; stands his ground even in the face of a hundred year old vampire. She respects him for that — and pretty much only that.

“I’ll say it again to your face if you’d like.”

“Go for it. I’ve got no problem punching a lady when I know it’ll hurt my fist more than her skull.”

“Brandon!” His boyfriend scoffs beside him; a signal to shut up, maybe? Brandon looks as ready to argue as Greer is ready to throw him back into the sewer water, though, so its a signal he takes.

Megan steps out between them. She loves her girlfriend and she loves her brother but honestly they’ve done nothing but bicker from the moment they stepped foot in Rome and it’s got her grinding-teeth on edge.

And as Brandon well knows she _hates_ grinding her teeth. Especially since some of them are sharper than others, now.

“Both of you two just stop it, _honestly,”_ she looks from one to the other with a heavy sigh, “if you put as much effort into finding the clues as you did measuring cocks we might’ve actually gotten there by now.”

She’s met with silence because they know she’s right even though they’re both too proud to admit it. But not answering is better than bickering. It gives her a chance to speak. “It’s three hours to dawn. We’ve been at this for most of the night already. I dunno about you but I don’t want to quit after getting this far!”

Her girlfriend squeezes their hands behind her. Sure — both of them would much rather be enjoying the perks of their black-out curtain suite _very much not sharing a wall with Brandon and Greer._ But they could do that back in London.

And the train tickets were pretty expensive.

Brandon relents first; raises up his hands with a huffed “Yeah, fine,” which Megan suspects is only to make her happy. She’s very okay with that.

She turns to Maricruz hopefully. Takes the woman’s hands in hers and kisses her favorite weird little cartoon dragon hidden in in her tattoo sleeve at the wrist. “Come on… for me?”

The former rum runner makes a valiant effort of it — really she does. But once Megan starts batting her eyelashes all resistance is pretty much futile.

“What he said.”

They share a quick kiss before resuming the hunt together as a group. Though… you won’t catch her saying it anywhere her girl can hear, Maricruz is pretty sure the whole thing is a hoax and they’re just wasting time and dirtying her favorite pair of boots.

Like — come on! Is she really supposed to believe there’s some _super secret exclusive vampire cult_ hanging around in the Roman underbelly? One that can only be _found_ through a bunch of weird clues pointing to their hiding place?

She enjoys a good conspiracy as the next vampire but this is just a bit much. Or they passed ‘a bit much’ four hours ago when they actually _came down here._

But Megan was bound and determined to find it. Maricruz isn’t certain what exactly ‘it’ is or what it will look like, but once the girl gets going she’s kind of impossible to stop. It’s, like, the only dominating part of her personality and it leaves her head-over-heels. 

And let it be known that she _had_ tried to get Megan to see reason. And like with most things her girlfriend wants her to do that she’s not entirely down with, Megan convinced her otherwise. Loudly. And with a lot of tongue.

“Oi, look here,” Greer calls the girls over from their side of the forked tunnel with hasty gestures, “check out what B found, I think this is something!”

“There are a lot of _somethings_ in a tunnel, Scotty.”

Megan rolls her eyes and mutters _“Seriously, stop it,”_ before she takes a knee beside her twin.

There’s no way in hell Maricruz’s jeans are touching any more of this nasty than they already have, so she stands.

Imagine her surprise when there actually _is_ something down at waist-height, just above where the water would rise at the highest tide. Carved into the concrete too uniform to be natural and too staring-them-in-the-face to be a mistake.

Brandon reaches out and traces his fingers through the grooves. “It’s like a triangle, or somethin’ like it. No definitely three points but there’s lines in the middle. Why isn’t someone with night vision doing this?”

“Move — Bran _move!”_ Megan does all but shove her brother aside to get a closer look and touch; digs her nails into the stone as if recalling the shape from sensory memory. Without looking back she reaches behind to her girlfriend.

“Can I have it again?” And Maricruz is more than happy to oblige. Parts with the folded coffee house napkin almost _too_ readily.

Something weird and hot tickles her shoulder and Maricruz flinches away to find Greer standing behind her on tiptoe to see for himself. “Sorry,” he murmurs in apology, but she steps aside because she’d forgotten how _icky_ human breath could be.

The Scot squints in the yellowing light of his torch — hits the side of it like that’ll somehow make it work better. “Is it the same symbol?”

“It is.” Megan replies — breathless and with glee. “Which means we take this turn until we find the next.”

It’s a beautiful thing; how effortlessly Megan smiles at her, at them all. And she’s only playing the Devil’s advocate _because_ that smile is so beautiful. Because she’d like to keep it around for decades to come.

“You’re sure you trust the guy who told you about all this?” Because — and again, something she would _never_ say in her girlfriend’s earshot — Maricruz isn’t so certain she would trust cult-related rumor and signage scribbled by a weird vampire-priest right beside the stain from a chocolate croissant.

_Actually she’d kill for a croissant right now._

The twins exchange looks and Brandon, hint taken, hooks one of Greer’s belt loops with his finger and starts them down the new group path first.

When they’re far enough ahead Megan kisses her again. Soft and sweet and excited but nothing like the excitement of before; nothing fueled by passion.

They pull apart and Maricruz sees why in Megan’s shining eyes. All that passion from before has a new outlet, now.

“I do, Mari. It’s a sign — it has to be.”

“It was literally carved in stone so, yeah?”

“Not just the symbol, but all this. You’ve been a real help, you know? In getting me used to all this… my new life and… and the new ‘me’ I am because of it. I literally owe you my life. My brother’s too, probably, and Greer’s. If I’d gone Feral…”

Maricruz chases those bad words and their bad thoughts away with her lips. She’s really good at that. “I know, _mi amor,_ I know.”

Megan nods and continues; “But… I still feel like there’s something I need to be looking for. Something that really _matters_ to me, you know? That makes all this new stuff — this new _world_ — make a bit of sense.

“And its all so weird, I’ll totally agree with you on that. But Ambrose seemed to really get it — get _me._ Like he knew to come exactly when I’d need him most. I trust him.”

“Even though his advice has put us in a sewer — in Rome.”

“Yes! Because I owe it to myself to try.”

_Ugh._ It’s so sappy and corny and cute so of course Maricruz kisses her again, of course she agrees with only mildly stated hesitation.

The girls don’t rush to catch up; a totally different pace than their earlier running.

“I told you he was American, right, like you?”

“You attract us; American vampires. Like flies to honey.”

“Do you think you might know him?”

“Do you know the Queen?”

“The Queen _isn’t a vampire, Mari.”_

“Same idea. But no, no I think I’d remember an old-fashioned name like Ambrose.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out [_And There was a Great Calm_ by Thomas Hardy.](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/57336/and-there-was-a-great-calm)
> 
> More official words will come with the posting of the epilogue later on. I'm much more emotional about this than I thought I would be, surprisingly. It's weird to hope that you've done your own story justice but to not be sure about it. I just hope you’ve enjoyed the ride as much as I have. Comments and critique would be fabulous, and as always thank you for reading!


	16. Las Vegas, 2017 (Epilogue)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> — Las Vegas, 2017. She lost a card game. He gained a friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **chapter content warnings:** language, alcohol, gambling

_Las Vegas, 2017_

In the middle of a glitzy casino-slash-hotel bar he’s usually not the first one to get attention.

He certainly isn’t the last. He’s well aware he’s conventionally attractive and when the big-wigs in their bespoke suits and five thousand dollar leather jackets have both of their arms snatched up he’s not unfamiliar with being the “next best thing.”

But this woman has been staring at him for an extremely intense fifteen minutes and for a man with eternity on his hands that kind of time doesn’t usually register. Not unless it’s important — or in this case extremely unnerving.

“If I’m upsetting you that much why don’t you just tell me to stop?”

She chooses just the right moment to make him choke on his margarita. Cadence splutters, feels the icy burn up in his sinuses but without the need to breathe it’s more uncomfortable than anything. He has to make a show of actually coughing, hacking his lungs out like… like the old man he saw choking on his martini olive an hour ago.

_Had he said that out loud? Or worse… was she a mind reader?_

But the woman two stools to his left doesn’t answer his thoughts — which is a really big relief for him. She just… keeps on looking. Leering; even. Head tilted to the side so the ends of her purple hair pools on the backlit bartop and makes her look a bit like a movie star. Of which Cadence has definitely seen a few since he started his night.

“Well?” When Cadence pushes up his glasses the woman laughs at him. “You know—I gotta ask. What were you going for there? Because they’re a little too thin to write you off as a nerd but your vibe is more _Draco Malfoy_ than _Harry Potter.”_

 _What does someone say to that?_ “I… Sorry, miss, but I’m waiting for someone.”

“And that means you can’t even have a chat?” She holds up a finger before he can even think up a reply. “Or is that your polite way of saying you don’t _want_ to have a chat?”

Cadence gives himself a moment and a half. “The latter.”

 _“‘The latter,’_ said the insanely attractive tree-tall stud under the delusion he’s playing at subtle and unassuming.” And she laughs and laughs and Cadence can’t tell if he’s insulted or not because while she was possibly the mouthiest woman he’s ever met — her impression of his accent wasn’t all too terrible.

Finally the woman has laughed enough; she looks down at her tumbler and the melting ice cube carved in the shape of the hotel’s signature Cordonian apple. Maybe he can finally be left alone…?

“Cooper said you were an odd client. But I guess it wouldn’t be the first time he’s understated a job.”

Cadence stills like stone. She knows he heard her. He knows she knows because of the sly smirk she doesn’t-quite hide behind her violet curtain of hair.

But it does the trick. She has his full attention now.

His eyes sweep the length of her with a new scrutiny. She’s still in the same skin-tight dress but all the vampire can see now are potential places to conceal a weapon. Wolfsbane in the resin pendant around her neck? Poison on the blade of a small dagger accessible from her thigh? A stake… actually it doesn’t look like she could fit a stake anywhere but he’d rather be safe than sorry.

“You know Cooper?” he finally asks.

“I _am_ Cooper.”

“That’s ridiculous. Jeremy Cooper is a balding middle aged man, and a former United States Marine.”

“Shit—really? We all thought he was joking.”

“Why in the world would someone _joke_ about that?”

Either she doesn’t care to respond or she doesn’t have one witty enough. Either way he respects her getting back to the matter at hand. She sends her drink skidding across the bar in his direction and takes up his neighboring stool possibly a little too close for comfort.

Cadence is always in control. He doesn’t have the luxury of being chained to his hunger — there are other, darker demons that bind him down. But every time he has to leave his office he’s forced to accept the fact that his isolation hasn’t been entirely to his benefit.

In summary: she smells amazing. Once he muddles through and around her perfume, that is.

“Don’t even think about it, Malfoy. Or should I call you _Cullen?”_

“Perhaps my name might be better?” He swallows down all the screaming parts of him and offers his hand. “I’m —”

“Cadence Smith, yeah yeah you really think I’d show up to this sleaze factory without knowing exactly who I’m looking for?” She leans in none-too-suspiciously. “Or _what_ I’m looking for, for that matter?”

It sounds too much like a threat. Cadence falls back on his old habit of straightening his back and shoulders; owning his height rather than shying from it. “Since you are far more informed than I, then, you shouldn’t have any trouble putting us on even footing. Starting with your name.”

There’s a brief silence where Cadence genuinely can’t figure out if she’s going to answer him. Likely about just as long as she contemplates the same.

Then finally; “Katherine.”

“Are you telling me the truth?”

“Does that particular detail matter at the moment?” Well… point taken.

He nods; a mutual agreement to move on. “Where is Cooper?”

“Dunno. I think he said something but taking his RV up the coast?”

Cadence holds up a finger and takes a moment to wave down the bartender. “Whatever she’s having, but two. I have a feeling I’m going to need it.” And only when he’s safely clutching a whiskey in hand does the finger go down.

Thankfully Katherine doesn’t judge him too outwardly. “You’re looking at your new Nighthunter-on-retainer, buddy.”

“I — what —”

“Take a sec’, let it sink in. I’m sure you’ve never gotten such good news so casually but I’m here to deliver.”

“Not… entirely what I’m thinking about.” Rather Cadence is panicking — wildly. And not as internally as he would hope. “I can’t afford this—here—right now. Kavinsky’s poker tourney starts in an hour and if I miss him before he starts…”

“Phew, okay — the one thing he isn’t kidding about and it’s how neurotic you are.”

Cadence shoots her a glare. “I am _not_ neurotic.”

“Then prove it.” He watches with no small amount of awe as Katherine stands and swiftly downs her new glass, then reaches over and helps herself to what remains of his. “Bottle it all up and let’s get a move on. Where’s this tournament? And are we playing — because poker got me into this mess so I really don’t think it’ll get me out.”

Cadence takes a moment to pinch his brow before joining her. He grabs his jacket from the back of his stool and shoulders it on.

“There’s… a set of private suites solely for shareholder games. Just underneath the presidential suite. That’s where he’ll be.”

“And bullet point this guy for me?” She gives a sweeping gesture for Cadence to lead and he takes it — but ends up doubling back to leave a generous tip.

If only such a thing were possible. In one year the vampire will most likely _not_ be celebrating _one hundred years_ at this pursuit; the search for his identity. A milestone he’s not exactly proud to be reaching. But in his so-far ninety nine years at this never has he met the irksome, selfish, greedy, needling like of Langdon Kavinsky.

Careful stock investments during the technological boom have ensured that Cadence’s life will never end in the penniless way it began. One would think an offer of _“whatever amount you deem appropriate, with as many commas and zeroes as you wish”_ would appeal to Langdon and his sole vice of greed.

Yet still the tycoon denies him. Or _had_ denied him until three weeks ago. It would be irresponsible of Cadence not to be suspicious.

“Well that’s obvious,” replies Katherine — who has listened with rapt attention every step towards the lifts, “and you don’t strike me as the _irresponsible_ type. Even for… one of your kind.”

“And knowing what I am still you’re bound and determined to join me?”

“I can take care of myself.” Which he doesn’t have a hard time believing at all.

They pass the hotel’s usual security with room key cards. Cautionary measures of a very specific type judging by the look he gives Katherine — but with no reason he’s forced to wave them on through.

“That one wasn’t there when I cased the place earlier,” Katherine tries to warn of the much larger secondary guard standing not-at-all suspiciously in front of the farthest elevator back. But he expected this.

He coaxes her to take his arm as they approach. The guard doesn’t bother with so much as a glance.

“Choose another elevator.”

Cadence flips his card between two fingers and holds the back up in what is apparently a very limited line of sight. The bulky fellow moves his eyes without so much as a twitch from the rest of him — he reminds the vampire of a certain stone troll from some years back.

“Mister Kavinsky is expecting me.” And though Cadence finds no small amount of amusement in contradicting the guard he can’t help but squeeze Katherine’s arm ever so slightly when she comes under his scrutiny.

“This isn’t the type of event one brings a guest to, Mister Smith. The lady can wait down here.”

 _“‘The lady’_ is right here,” she snaps; a firecracker at his side, “and the lady can do what she likes.”

“Katherine —”

“Would you be arguing with me if Cooper had shown up?”

She doesn’t glare at him — instead seems rather smug and matter-of-fact. This is because she knows she’s right. A recurring theme in this their play in three acts.

 _Very well._ He rounds on the guard before he can argue. “Mister Kavinsky expects his payment, I’m assuming?”

Silence. “Yes.”

“Then the lady — and all of her _fine_ jewelry — will be joining me. I’m not such a fool that I’d bring it in cash.”

It’s with reluctance that the human finally surrenders. Presses a single ruby-red button different than the normal silver ones. The lift doors open right away, smooth and soundless; waiting at Kavinsky’s beck and call.

“Enjoy your evening, Mister Smith.” The guard pivots on his shiny heel to watch the pair enter all the way until the doors close. It’s rather jarring — such an ugly and brutish face suddenly replaced by Cadence’s own reflection.

They begin to ascend.

“You never explained why you’re here in his stead —” Cadence shrugs off her glare easily, “— you brought him up; you’ve no one to blame but yourself.”

“Yeah yeah yeah…”

By the time the doors open at their floor Jeremy Cooper is no longer in the vampire’s good graces. Hopefully the hunter knows it would be in the best interests of his continued miserable life to never find himself in New Orleans again. _A card game — that’s what his identity was worth. A shitty hand at a shitty game._

If his new Nighthunter— _Nighthuntress?_ —senses his frustration she conceals it well; tugs him along via their linked arms and down the brightly lit hotel corridor. “Hey — the means may’ve been weird but I’m not complaining. You’re still paying me.”

A statement, yes, but one she still demands answer for with a mere glance.

“Yes—Yes of course. All of Cooper’s contractual obligations are yours; as are his terms and salary.”

“I’ve already started working on my own terms — but that can wait I think.”

 _Thank you,_ he thinks wearily, though he doesn’t really know who to direct it to.

Judging by their pace and the men who appear to be colleagues of their dear friend down in the lobby who come into view around a corner — they don’t have as long as Cadence would like to go over details Cooper would have already known.

Not that it stops her.

“Just tell me what we’re here for and how we’re gonna get it.” She hisses low. But she knows how good his hearing is.

“Kavinsky is an eccentric collector of the occult. I’ve been following his purchases since last spring — some of his treasures are fakes, some aren’t; but they are all worth fortunes apiece.”

“Is he hoarding a supernatural armory?”

“Nothing so insidious that I could find. Rather totems, relics, regalia and the like. A month ago he came into possession of an extremely old and rare antique amulet.”

“Tell me this thing, like, destroys the world or something.”

“What,” thank god he catches himself before his face twists into confusion; that would _not_ look good, “why would you think — no. The Amulet of Nero has long been rumored to contain some sort of powerful essence; the only one of its kind. An essence only of use to vampires. It’s my belief that this essence could help me regain what I’ve lost.”

Katherine stops them before they would be in the doormen’s earshot. Cadence opens his mouth to question her but finds that rather hard to do — what with her hands on his cheeks and her tongue in his mouth.

She kisses wet and noisy — somehow it makes sense for her. She grasps and tugs at his hair, makes as if to pull him aside for his body to pin her against the wall. But that is quite enough, he thinks, and pulls back just far enough to speak. That’s quite a strategically placed hand of hers that covers their lips from the eyes on them.

The vampire tries his hardest not to gag. _“What—You—Why did you do that?”_ he asks with a choking whisper. Katherine remains unperturbed.

 _“Shush; I’m buying us time. How are we getting this thing?_ ”

Right. “He offered me the opportunity to win it in his tourney. But this close and after all this time…”

Cadence’s eyes flick to the door at the end of the hall; red and bright and thankfully hidden by his mussed-up hair. But when he moves them back to his companion she doesn’t even blink. “I’ll be taking the Amulet whether I win or not. If you have a problem with that kind of work then I suggest you try and get Cooper to take back his contract.”

A strange and almost feline grin spreads on the Nighthunter’s glossy lips. She separates them and makes as if to compose herself; but the longer Cadence finds himself in her company the more he starts to notice what’s a part of her act and what isn’t.

Katherine flutters her eyelashes at him sweetly. Definitely part of the act.

“I don’t have a problem with that at all.”

Cadence, surprised but nonetheless relieved, adjusts his tie and again offers his arm. “Shall we then, Kathy?”

And like with everything else she meets him hit for hit.

“It would be my pleasure, Cade.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bewildering, isn’t it? With that, _Bound by Choice,_ book 3 in the series, is ended. I didn’t actually have plans to write an entire book on the Trinity, they were supposed to be just _very_ low key secondary antagonists. But then Cadence happened in _Circumstance_ and we all know how that went. 
> 
> I had to reconcile a lot of things about them in this book, too. They are very much not the heroes of their own book; or any book for that matter. They aren’t heroes at all. But I hope they still came across as likable, or at the very least entertaining.
> 
> If you catch me over on jcckwrites on tumblr you know that book 4, _Bound by Destiny II,_ is already well underway and possible even getting out of hand. There’s a lot more involvement of secondary plots and characters and many of the faces you met here in _Choice_ will be returning.
> 
> Since there is so much written already, book 4 in the series will be premiering on-schedule next Wednesday. I know I say it at the end of every chapter but this book holds a very special place in my heart, so _thank you so much for reading,_ and comments and critique are always welcomed.


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